I have always loved writing.
When I was a teenager the act of writing gave me solace from the angst that was my world. Late at night when everyone was asleep, I would open up one of my notebooks and pour my heart out. If I had nothing to write about I would listen to the radio and find my inspiration in the songs that came on. A word, a verse, an idea, all led to sentences streaming across the page.
I would stay awake till long after 3am, surrounded by silence and darkness.
I never thought about the implications of this. I never thought that a love of writing could be anything more than a passing of time spent alone. Somehow, as I got older, I got a little more distracted. I spent all my time watching TV, another show, another drama absorbing me in. My love of writing forgotten in an old journal under the bed. Years went by, occasionally something would remind me to scribble my thoughts on to paper but never in a consistent manner.
Then death happened.
People cope with death in various ways. I coped with a love of whiskey and a notebook filled with poems written to a father who could never read them. I poured my heart out, in anger, with regrets, with words of love that would never be shared. I learnt again to love writing, not because I enjoyed it but because I needed it. Few understood me the way my pen did, few knew what I was going through like those words did. I wrote long into the hours. Alone in my bedroom. On the floor. I was broken but in that pain I found myself. My therapist, perhaps concerned about the content of my writing asked to read some of it. Instead of finding signs of desperation, she asked me, surprisingly, is writing not perhaps something I could pursue professionally. I thought she was just being kind. After all, what kind of career could I have writing.
Ten years of University and I perfected the art of the argument. I wrote from both sides of the burning bridge. I wrote for, I wrote against. I loved the way there was no bias, just facts being stated as they appeared. An argument so perfectly constructed that there could be no right and wrong. I loved the structure that it brought to my words. I loved the research that went into each paper. Lovingly read about and thought about before the process begins. Each paper submitted, written from my soul. It didn’t matter what the material was, I was always determined to put my thoughts down in the most meticulous manner.
What if I’m not good enough?
Writers often struggle with the criticism of their work. Artists hide paintings away for years out of a misguided belief that the work isn’t good enough. That’s how it has always been for me. My words never good enough to show to others, not even when the few who had been privy to the chaos had encouraged me. Always chalked up to a mothers love, a friends kindness, my words were never good enough for the public eye.
Starting a blog
I have wanted for the longest time to start a blog. I have started and deleted, I have written and hidden so many attempts. Never thinking there was any point. Until now. On a whim one day, I decided. If I don’t do this, then I may look back with regret. If no one reads my writing, that’s okay. If some read it and hate it, that’s okay too. I am not going to live my life with fears and regrets and wonder what if. So this is my confession. These are my words. I will write them.
The readers may come and they may not. Either way, it is time to finally accept, I have always been a writer. Whether you read my words or not.
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