Writing is something I never wanted to do when I was younger. I always put off to the last-minute anything that had a due date. I always needed to feel the pressure before I bothered to put pen to paper. Looking at myself now? I cannot believe the amount I have written in the last few years! Now? Now, I am a writer.
Writer? What does that mean? This is a blog, after all. Aren’t we all writers? Maybe. For me, it’s having that impulse, desire, can’t stop what I’m doing, have to finish, feeling of putting thoughts on a screen. That uncontrollable urge to share my thoughts, my desires, my dreams. It’s an obsession of sorts.
I started writing as an outlet, a way to speak. My muteness in my life was killing me and I needed a way out. As I carefully began to write, as I began to edit everything that came out of my mind, I began to see that my writing was still stifling me. I was still unwilling to be vulnerable; I was unwilling to be honest with myself. I feared what others might say or think, and I had no strength for rebuttal and no knowledge of how to deflect anything negative. It was hard.
Then I started letting myself breathe more. I began writing only to myself. I began being honest and vulnerable, with the knowledge that no one would ever read it. Occasionally I’d put something I liked out in public, or I’d find myself editing something more personal and put it out there. Slowly I began to trust myself and I began to write more often.
I began to be a writer. I began to love my writing. I was finally finding my voice and it hurt. It was a wonderful pain, though; the pain of growing. I began to love the challenge and my words began to flow. Writing has become such an outlet for me now that I would rather, sometimes, to sit on my computer for hours than do anything else. When I write, time is still, meaningless, years go by in my mind. Sometimes I am only a child, others I am here as I am now. Time has no meaning at all. When I write, nothing else matters.
Now? Now I remain vulnerable but I am willing to put some of it out there. Now I am truly letting the unknown masses see peaks into my soul. It’s scary, it’s frightening, it’s often terrifying, but I keep doing it. Why? Why do I put myself out there? By being honest, others may find the courage to do so as well. By living into me; I give others room to be authentic. When I am able to give words to something tragic, when I am able to give others their voice, it makes all of my fears and tears worth it.
Writing? Is it worth it? Yes.
thanks for reading,