Despite everything - the expectations and the money and the desire to impress. Despite the plans and the effort put into another life, she knew now. She wanted to be a writer.
It was the only thing in her life that ever made sense. The ink on a note pad or the sound of a keyboard clicking as the words spilled from her brain onto paper - tangible and raw. She wanted to record everything. Whether it was the fear of forgetting her own life or the love of concrete, specific memories - she foraged on. Writing was safe, a haven for her thoughts without judgment. It gave her the things that she couldn't get anywhere else. The release it provided comfort even better than conversation. She didn't have to worry about being wrong, judged or interrupted. A sanctuary, the flow always came at just the right time.
Pen to paper, the keyboard bleeding each thought, spontaneity was the most beautiful part. Scribbling in an old notebook, falling in love with the stories - I learned pretty early on that I loved words.
Filling journals and making subject lines in the notes of my phone, it was the unforced part of my life. During the most painful times, I started book outlines. The negativity birthed creativity and words spilled out like dry sand. At the age of 20, I started a blog and 6 months later had enough hits to get a gig at a newspaper. It was one of the only things I didn't rush and because of that became the thing I loved most. It made me feel like myself.
Words are everything and they are everywhere. It's easy to underestimate their power, taking for granted how much letters can do. I was in middle school when I took my first try at personal writing. I remember being terrified that someone would find the notebook, tattered and completely filled, in the back drawer of my nightstand. It was filled with thoughts too intense for the eyes of another person and so, I kept it hidden. I was anxious about what people would think if they saw that side of me.
I had all these random exertions, things that happened to me, and some completely unrelated stories. Each one just seemed to hit me and in these moments, I couldn't think about anything else until I got it on paper. Writing was living - something I needed. It's ultra convenient to be obsessed with something you can always take with you.
To me, words are everything. I wouldn't be who I am without the release they provide, without the ability to account my experiences and the thoughts they create. Responsible for understanding my life, preparing for the future, finding true love, and portraying deep seeded anger. I loved their spirit - that they are forever fluctuating. That they market the world and market you - illustrating oneself has become a habitual advertisement. Whether we try to or not, everyone does it - student, athlete, dreamer, bum, boarder, realist, narcissist, believer, mother, teacher. We have these roles based on the actions we partake in and the words we use, how we describe ourselves, but also how others describe us.
I struggled a lot under the impression that I needed to establish an identity for myself. I wanted to be known for something and I always worried that I wouldn't find it, but I would later come to find that the thing I was too nervous to share, would become one that I was the proudest of. Writing was something that chose me. While it served as a fabulous hobby it also saved me in more ways than one. I used poetry, short stories, and journalling to process the turning points in my life. It taught me things that I would never have otherwise known and recording things I may forget let me read between the lines when the time was right.
Telling my story and the ones inside my head is the "most right" feeling thing I have ever known. The unexpected nature of my relationship with words and an ability to portray them gives me a sense of direction that I always craved - and this time without the need to prove myself. I don't question what I do when I write, and that is the greatest gift I could ever ask for.
