I can’t remember a time that I didn’t like writing, or even reading for that matter. My first favorite book was James and the Giant Peach, and I remember writing a quite similar story about little panther
I ended up being rather prolific on papers, competing with my tendency for voracious verbal fluency for advertising time. Poetry, short stories, editing the school newspaper, pen-pals (I still write to my 6th grade teacher 2 times a month) long written cards, now e-cards, and love letters. Then something happened. It was called graduate school and I tended to be inundated with essay and dissertation writing, almost all hours logged on at a coffee table. I didn’t CRAVE to write…and in the process, lost a little “soul.”
I started this blog as a response to my 101 things in 1001 Days, a challenge to myself to write more. Who knew that it would redeem something essential about who I am. That in asking questions and exploring, and documenting my experiences, I would embrace all the grace available to me and feel connected, known, as if I matter. It’s not about the end product, the goal (although I did write a novel this year!) . There part of this poem by Mary Oliver, it reads
Instructions for Living A life
Tell About It.
In my 20s, it seemed that life presented me with too many open doors, and I was so anxious about everything I chose, the carving out of THIS IS WHO I AM. Writing doesn’t tell me who I am (a “good” person, a “lazy” housekeeper) or what I am not (“tall”, “a night-owl). It just is. It doesn’t lead anywhere except deeper into me. A me I often don’t like, and a me that I can laugh at, and wonder at, and scream at. Writing solves many things for me, but not everything. Sort of like love. Sort of like faith.
So I write