Desribe yourself when you were eight...

(From time to time I'll be using a writing prompt - this is the first)

When I was eight, life was just about perfect. I had my grandparents (whom my dad, older sister and I lived with) and they were WONDERFUL. I remember feeling safe and loved, like nothing bad could ever happen.
My father drank then, going on binges for weeks at times, but I was sheltered as much as possible from it all.

My days were spent outdoors, exploring, playing with my dogs, and riding my pony. I loved being outside. In the evenings we sat around the table and ate the food my grandmother fixed - homemade biscuits were usually a part of evey meal.

My grandparents loved me with a love that can't be explained. They provided for me, watched over me, and made me feel special.

At night I would lie in my bed, in the room I shared with my sister, and drift off to sleep, without a care in the world. My granparents were right down the hall. I thought that safe, perfect world would last forever.

For As Long As I Can Remember...

I have wanted to be a writer. I've wanted to see my book on the shelf of a bookstore, my picture on the back cover, and my words on the pages. I still want that. It gets stronger and stronger the older I get. Maybe I feel that time is running out?

Whenever I go a few days without writing I feel it physically. It's an ache, a longing, an addiction. It cannot  truly be explained unless you have experienced it yourself. The words almost DEMAND to be written. They won't let me sleep, or rest, or focus on anything else until I get them down on paper.

There's a story within me now, with characters so real I feel they are with me in this very room. They are waiting for me to write their story so they can live.