I started to draw again a few months back, dabbling with colored pencils and markers... Apparently I had to step away from the first draft of my memoir, so I could tackle the revision and editing with fresh eyes? They recommended a month, so that's what I did. Some canvasses from the two dollar shop, a shoe box full of colored markers and off I went, doing something I never expected I'd revisit.

It was crap. I knew it. Art is not like riding a bicycle. I thought it might be but sadly, the botched canvasses lying around my bedroom said otherwise.

I reasoned it would be the same if I, say, started writing, after decades of silence. One does not suddenly become a writer yeah? It takes countless words, a myriad scrunched up papers, or these days, ruthless continuous taps on the delete button. What had I expected? Pulling a visual masterpiece from my arse the moment I picked up a marker?

I did give my youngest nephew a graffiti-like rendition of his name a few days ago. My brother voiced the appropriate oohs and aahs..."Look what auntie made for you!" His wife displayed mild surprise, adding, "I didn't know you could draw?"

"It's in the memoir!" I wanted to say, but I'd already asked her if she'd read it and she'd replied, "No, sorry, it's been a busy time..."

I caught the briefest look before my brother lowered his head checking his mobile phone - but it was nondescript. He knew I hadn't created any art for over thirty years! Arghhh.

"I've finished the first draft - you know - the memoir I'm writing? I thought I'd stop for a month, remove myself before I tackled the editing. So I've been drawing... therapy I guess?"

She smiled, like an indulgent mother. My brother's head remained lowered. End of conversation. I fought back a laugh, as the image of a giant pink elephant filled our crowded living area. I could see it. I was fairly certain they both saw it too. The ease with which the three of us pretended it did not exist... speaking through it at each other as the conversation migrated to my brother's next overseas business trip... Same old, same old.

So I stopped drawing, concentrating on other writing instead. Some days, revisiting the first draft of my memoir too and fidgeting; moving words around then putting them back as they were. I could not edit any of it! I was supposed to - everyone said so - but somehow it felt complete and 'finished', the way it was.

In-between, I flirted with the dozen or so open tabs on the screen: Checked emails. Checked the new Facebook page, created under my pseudonym and despite acute disdain from my sons. Read news updates. Found a story on Wattpad that hadn't been written by a seventeen year old girl with non-existent grammar, peppered with 5,000 "like, you know, like, he said... like..."  The last few days, having stumbled across this confounding concept, I had struggled to understand it, let alone appreciate it. I even called my son for help.

"See, they post their writing for free, and everyone can read it and make comments."

"And?" Dylan didn't seem at all perturbed.

"You don't find it odd that so many people are just giving their work away?"

"Almost everything is free on the internet these days mum." Sigh.

"Yes, but... how do these writers make a living? I mean they're giving it away, most of it is not even protected by copyright!"  

"That's so others can edit or change it if they like. It's collaboration?"

"Bullshit! And look at it!" I carried on, furiously clicking on random 'books'. "Most of this is trash! Spelling errors, punctuation, composition... all bullshit!"

"That's just your opinion mum."

"What do you mean my opinion? Look at the comments! People are saying they "loooove" this drivel. What the hell? Where are we going?"

"You don't get it." He clicked on a random profile and then on a couple of links at the bottom. "See, here's her Facebook page and this is her website and she has a blog and a Twitter account. You can buy her books there," he added, pointing to an Amazon link.

"Why would I bother buying if I can read them here for free?"

"You can choose to support her by buying, or liking or following. See, she has 165 thousand followers." He pointed to the right of her web page. "She advertises too, which brings in money every time someone clicks on one of the ads."

I struggled to bring my Jurassic brain up to speed. I wasn't seventeen; I was two hundred million years old, still munching on tree leaves while these teens were brunching on comments and tweets, relishing the taste of: "cute.. frienship "  and "nice1"and "My mom died today," "Oh... I'm sosorry. :( *Hugs*"," which I definitely considered a weird thing to post as commentary on someone else's novel?

My son walked away after offering a parting shot: "You just don't get it mum. Everyone is giving their stuff away for free now. It's how you get known."

"Wait! Wait!"

"I don't want to talk about it. No one is forcing you! Why do you have to make everything so complicated?"

Give "my stuff" away for free? I'd been so enraptured by the act of writing, I'd not ventured past the act itself. Now I was supposed to give it all away? The angst, the anguish, the trauma... hell, the ripping apart; my hand reaching inside and wrenching bloodied words out... for what? A throng of followers who said illuminating things like, "I love love stories! <3 Gives me inspiration for my own c:" and "Hold on wasnt Marcus the guy who was voted for "cutest butt" and "most beautiful eyes"? Followed by, "Once I saw threw up all over the school I'm like "I love it all ready!!""

I thought about it. I did. I browsed through every category, from ChickLit to Random, picking out several books in each one; holding back judgment, ignoring language horrors and focusing only on the idea, the raison d'etre. Attention! Attention! The words screamed. "Look at me! Look at me! Follow me! Like me! Tell me you like me!!!"  This single shared premise constant, at times bullishly insistent.

Or was I the pompous, arrogant know-it-all? Deigning to place myself above these assumed mediocre and mostly written-to-a-formula attempts at garnering attention by spouting any amount of bullshit, under a pretty heading and an alluring, (read impossibly perfect human form,) cover photo? I went back and found a passage I'd written in my memoir:

"I've missed you. Missed me more, this self, igniting, melting, melding, mending even broken-down dreams. I surely crave the lips through which I drank reckless abandon, never expecting they'd shut silent, or that I may be outside one day so fucking thirsty, watching them pour life yet unable to reach in and take some taste. Some other woman stepping in, and drinking everything in my place? Who'd ever think?"

These words could never fit here! The writing out of place, out of bloody context! Too old for this site, too deep for this generation of whom one contributor collectively asked, "Does your mother know you're on here?"

Me being me, of course I ended up posting something anyway. I thought, why not some poetry? Who buys Poetry Collections these days right? I could give those away for free. So I set up my profile:

"I have grown to detest these "about me" pages. I am really not this 2000 character thing I am forced to describe so you somehow identify with it and if I'm lucky, like and follow...

I write. That's where you'll find me, that's where we might connect. It matters little who I am, how old I am, where and how I live, what drives me and where my interests lie. Similarly, I am not one to crave intimate knowledge of who you are. I read stories and poems, not profiles. If I like what you write, I'll keep reading. If I don't, I'll move on. If you like what you read, then thank you. If you don't, I am sorry I have wasted your time. It's that simple."

I posted twenty poems over a twenty four hour period. 48 reads, not a single like, or follower. My son wandered in.

"No one following you yet?"

"Nope. Do you think it's my profile?"

"You reckon?" he asked, rolling his eyes as he read through. "Also your profile pic looks like a toilet bowl."

"What? No it doesn't, it's a white coffee cup with sugar at the bottom shaped like a love-heart!"

"It's a toilet bowl. Once you see it you can't un-see it. Sorry."

I looked at it again. It was a toilet bowl! My attempt at an artistic representation of said coffee cup had resulted in a round image of one corner of a toilet bowl with what looked like toilet paper at the bottom of it! Crap!

Actually, I kept it in the end, since it had summed up my experience on Wattpad to date rather nicely. About the only bright spot was discovering an ex-cop, who 'wrote as he saw'. I read through some of his work, falling asleep in the middle of "I Blame My Selfie" a rather scathing and at times overly candid opinion piece about technology and its effect on the young. Ah, the blessed relief of finding another adult!

So I'd been writing since, hour after hour. Two in the morning, I'd be saying goodnight to the boys as they headed off to bed, having just woken and making the first coffee before sitting in front of the monitor. Writing about anything and everything, like the floodgates had opened and the words were gushing out. Where was all this stuff coming from? I had five word documents open, five different stories and I alternated between them, a chapter here, a chapter there, some revision...

I still had no followers on Wattpad. I asked Dylan what he thought.

"You need to write simple words, so people understand mum."

"Simple words?" I was insulted. "Hey I write what comes out!"

"Yes, but no one knows those big words. You need to think about your audience right? They're not going to read if you use big words."

"What? I have to go back and make everything simple? Like I'm writing for five year olds?"

"You don't get it."

"Make me understand then. I want people to read my stuff!"

"Stop using big words no one knows then."

"I can't control the words! I know them, I am used to them."

He gave me that look where I suddenly felt out of touch, left behind. "Mum. People don't give a shit about errors and punctuation and big words. You want an audience; you have to give them stuff they like! Think Game of Thrones!"

"What? Trashy stories full of sex, violence and fantasy? Or...fanfiction? You want me to write bloody fanfiction?"

"That's what everybody reads now... At least people of my generation. Or wite about interesting stuff. Like the things you tell us."

I thought about it some more. Changed my profile picture, re-wrote the 'about me' as I had sounded like a pompous know-it-all... I wrote the truth instead. I also started a series I named "Bite Me". A fitting cover, red lips about to bite down on a piece of chocolate. Within it, I began to tell stories, some from my days in Real Estate, some reactionary pieces, some things that had occupied my mind that I thought others might find interesting... I published my first 'chapter' mid-February from memory. Same thing, a few reads...

...I pressed the 'publish' button on my Memoir soon after this.

I never joined Wattpad with the intention of doing so. This memoir was the BIG one, the BAD one, the one I never wanted the world to see. I'd created this persona, and I was writing some new stuff, posting old stuff, getting the odd read. That's all I wanted really, to prove I had the guts to share a little of what had forever been my secret self. I expected I would feel content with just that.

I had been doing some reading too, mostly non-fiction; looking for biographies and real-life stories. That's when I had come across yet another story by the ex-cop titled 'The Body'. I liked it. A lot. I read even more of this person's work. One day someone made a derogatory comment on one of his pieces and I felt compelled to reply - to rise to this stranger's defense. I received a message from him, privately thanking me in turn.

Thus it began. A word-full exchange where two complete strangers from opposite sides of the world discovered an easy connectivity and within it created humorous banter, exchanged thoughts, shared life's big and small problems and joys and maintained an effortless friendship.

He was my first and only 'follower' for a while. Then he started reading all of my timid offerings and he said, "Write more!" So I wrote more. Over the weeks he kept pushing me, and then he began announcing me to his rather large audience. Other people began to take notice and suddenly I was talking to many strangers around the globe, making more and more 'friends'. I was posting and sitting back in awe as I observed people connecting with my words and building conversations around them. I kept refreshing the page, intrigued by the possibility of further verbal exchanges, greater connectivity.

For one who has spent over half a lifetime in hiding or in the shadows of others, this was an awakening; I was no longer gazing at the rooftops outside my window. The window had suddenly become the world, full of interesting people and the magical meeting of minds. I found myself smiling, experiencing joy, elation. I was alive! My life developed purpose, meaning; the nights were no longer empty stretches of time spent aimlessly browsing the internet in-between descending the stairs and checking on my father.

I also found myself joking with my boys more, relating stories, sharing some of the comments and verbal exchanges. I've always been reserved and rather serious, and they were seeing this transformation taking place; their mother excited, overjoyed, animated for the first time.

One day I told Robert I'd written my memoir. He asked to read a little of it. I got a message back saying "I hate you now, it's that good!" He urged me to share it with others; he believed some people would find it helpful. I resisted. It was the BIG one right?

My finger hovered over the 'publish' button for a week. Then one day, without pausing to consider it, I pushed that button. It was at that point I understood that this had been my desire all along. I wanted to share my story, that's why I'd joined this site. It had festered in me for a lifetime, and it was time to let it go.

Now here's the thing: If I hadn't 'met' Robert, I would not have done it. I would have continued posting my poetry and prose - I may have gathered a few followers over time but I'd still be that little voice posting random stuff in this humongous creative space.

My Memoir is called STEPS. I didn't agonize over the title, I didn't soul-search, and I didn't refer to experts or read articles regarding the merits of this title or that one. Because see, my life had been a series of steps. Any small deviation, any one thing differing and I wouldn't be right here, right now, having pushed the publish button and writing this afterthought.

Bad things happened to me. I did bad things in turn. When I traced my steps in reverse, I understood that the bad things were needed along with the good in order for me to be delivered to this now. Any missed step, even the tiniest of detours would have led me some place else, and I'd be someone else in that 'other' place.

I've always insisted that all things happen for a reason. I believe in some grander plan, where we are always deposited exactly where we're supposed to be at any given point. People and situations guide us, despite us believing we are making decisions and that we are in control. I don't have faith in any recognized deity nor do I believe in 'fate'. I do however think that something is guiding me at least, and that every person and circumstance both good and bad, is purposeful.

Writing my memoir, I paused so many times and thought of the alternate futures or realities that might have manifested had some of the people and circumstances not crossed my path. My childhood was horrific. Life has been hard. I screwed up. I got screwed over.

But here I am now, laughing, happy, enjoying my life with my two precious sons. Writing and connecting with people, forming friendships... I like this me. I like my life NOW. I like this reality. I wouldn't trade in any of the horrors if it meant me being somewhere else right now, anywhere else.

I would willingly suffer it all again. Over and over if I had to, every single step, if it led me to here, to this now and this me.

The message? Sure there's always some message lurking in my words. It's the never regretting. No matter how dire the current life you live - no matter how dark and devastating - something or someone will light up a different path. Someone old, someone new... someone or something will transport you to a different place. You might think in the moment that this journey too is irrelevant, purposeless. Yet it is another step. You cannot regret the last one see, because without it, you'd never be in the right place and time to take this new one.

Even when you think you are motionless, suspended in a lonely, empty and silent space, a voice will break through. A word will reach you. A stranger might 'find' you from across the globe and introduce a new direction.

Robert, the ex-cop with a penchant for little blue thingies found me and unsuspended me. His words gave me courage, his observations and his quirky humor resurrected my spirit. New steps.

'Somehow', my memoir ended up in the Featured section. I say somehow because he contacted Wattpad and spoke to someone about it - without telling me. Only when I was contacted in turn by a member of the Wattpad team and told that STEPS was going to be featured, did he admit to doing so.

What I want to say is, whoever you are, wherever you are, no matter how trite and insignificant your life may seem, no matter the amount of anguish and pain and loneliness you may be feeling, there is another Robert somewhere, who will one day reach out, reach in, and deliver you to a fantastical new existence.

There is some good in all of us. We forget sometimes - dealing with all the bad stuff - that this goodness exists. We lose our faith in our goodness as a result. It takes someone outside of us to see it, and to exult in it. Then we pause. We might shed a tear - I did - understanding this someone sees us as we are, separate from our troubles and our fears and our insecurities.This person uplifts us. Opens our eyes to beauty and opens our hearts to friendship.

My Robert has transformed me. Amongst all the bad stuff, I must have done something exceptionally good, to merit his selfless supportand his friendship. Your Robert, whoever he or she may be, may one day transform you in turn, so yes, trust in that goodness that lies somewhere within you...