I never had time to be a writer. After all, I had my job at the FedEx/Kinko’s, I had church Sundays and Wednesdays, I had dogs to feed and walk, and then there are all the other little chores associated with living.

Who has the time to sit around and write down all their thoughts and feelings and memories? I sure didn’t.

Now all I have is time. Time and the burning desire to leave my mark on the literary world. Unfortunately, breaking into writing as a ghost has proved far more difficult than I thought it would be.

For one thing, there’s the simple act of… well… writing.

Now that I don’t have a physical form, I can’t hold a pen, let alone type. And then there’s the fact that my landlord threw out all my things — including my old desktop PC!

Even if I did have corporeal fingers to type with, I don’t know the password to the computer that the new family in my apartment has. I used to keep my password on a sticky note on the monitor, but they don’t do that.

Different strokes, I suppose.

Who has the time to sit around and write down all their thoughts and feelings and memories? I sure didn’t.

But after lots of trial and error, I’ve found a way to write! When I really concentrate, I can finger paint on the wall. I don’t know where the red paint comes from. It almost looks like blood, but it can’t be — I don’t have any.

Like I said, it works only when I really focus and concentrate on manifesting my words in the physical world, so I have to do it late at night when the little family of three is asleep and won’t bother me. I could never gather my thoughts with all the gasping and screaming they do in the mornings.

It’s actually quite insulting. I mean, how would you feel if someone read something you’d been working on all night and screamed in horror?

Sure, I make a lot of false starts, but that’s just part of the creative process, isn’t it?

For instance, I originally meant to write about how I never left my hometown until I was 10 and went on a vacation to Disney World, but then I thought, If I’m going to tell my story, I should really start at the beginning, so I abandoned that sentence.

By then, I could hear the first of the family’s morning alarms going off and I knew the woman would be up in a minute to make coffee. I resolved to try again the next day. And let me tell you, the way she carried on about my first draft, it took a lot of courage to try again.

If you can believe it, the family actually scrubbed away my words from the night before. Okay, I’m no Shakespeare, but I would have appreciated a little support.

How would you feel if someone read something you’d been working on all night and screamed in horror?

The next night, I started at the very beginning. You see, one thing that makes me unique is how early my memories go back. I can actually recall my final days in the womb. I remember my parents fighting over TV channels.

So late that night, I summoned all my focus and concentration and began.

But just then, a motorcycle revved past in the street and then a dog was barking and next a cat was screeching and I knew that night was a lost cause. I was disappointed, but I figured I could always try again.

At least that’s what I thought until I heard the screaming this morning. I won’t pretend the family’s reaction to my work didn’t hurt my feelings.

And then they brought in a priest! He told them not to touch my work (which I appreciated), but apparently he’s staying the night.

I didn’t even think this family was religious. The sounds of joy and praise I heard last Sunday morning definitely weren’t for the Lord, if you know what I mean.

But the priest is still sitting there. He’s been quiet though, just praying and reading his bible. And he did tell the family to preserve my work…

Maybe I’ll give writing one more try. In life, I spent way too much time worrying what other people think. Now that my life is over, I can’t let their reactions keep me from telling my story. I need to carpe that diem!

In fact, I think I’ll start with that sentiment tonight.