Saturday, January 10, 2015

On writing

I have grappled with writing in some way or another my whole life. Well, since I learned to write and be, 14 years old. I kept a journal for 7 years. A neat, eclectic little stack of books developed in my room and moved with me to Peteborough when I was 19 and then from apartment to apartment around that precious city. It's now been about 7 years since I stopped writing on a regular basis. From the best I can remember, I stopped writing because I felt like I was spinning in circles. Writing the same stories of anxiety and heartbreak over boys and who I was. It wasn't helping me and I was tired of talking. So I even stopped talking to myself in this particular way. There's no point in wondering now if it was a detriment to me or is what it is. But now I see that writing is something that I need to do. It helps me to feel clear and calm in myself. No matter how repetitive it may sound or how poor of a writer I fear I am. It doesn't matter. It's for me. And maybe my children one day.

I love to read about the everyday lives of others and it helps me to not feel so alone in the world at times. And isn't that one of the most important parts of being human? To know and be known? To help others not feel so alone in this this life?

My mind is often a mess...fumbling around, trying to please and understand and communicate all it's passion and messiness. And so my writing will be the same. I will stop waiting for the perfect moment or the perfect pen or insisting on consistency. There will be writing in books, on this blog, in my phone, in my day planner, in letters to loved ones and notecards to everyone.

I'm 31 years old and I can tell you this about myself: I am much better at writing than I am at speaking. Trust me.
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