When I was younger, I wrote every day.
I was probably 6 years old and I had this green composition notebook that I carried around with me all of the time. I mainly wrote short stories, mostly about cats.
When I got a little bit older, I was a bit more private and started keeping a diary. Each day, I would write about everything that happened to me from the moment I got up to the moment I went to bed and put pen to paper to write about it.
Then high school hit and thus the bad poetry began. Maybe not all bad, but the subject matter was always the same. The name might have changed. The words however did not. (This sadly carried over into my 20's).
I always did well in English and I've always enjoyed writing about everything. I used to have all of these ideas for short stories, novels, poetry, ect. I couldn't get the words written onto paper quickly enough.
Now, it's a bit of a struggle.
I don't seem to have the imagination I once harbored. The language of writing suddenly seems all jumbled up in my head and my mind is screaming to let them out.
When I I decided to write this memoir, what 3 or 4 years ago?, I was excited and thrilled to have a project to focus on. But suddenly, something had changed inside of me. I have all of these events and moments in my life that I wish to share with the world but I'm still a very private person and I suddenly became super vulnerable. I held back, still do, and I'm finding it hard to let go and simply write.
I started thinking on this the other day, wondering what exactly had changed when I realized it was my audience. I've always had the power to choose who did or didn't read my thoughts. Then I started blogging and my words were no longer safe in the confines of my little green composition notebook.
They were out there naked for the world to see.
I didn't realize that I was doing it, but I started leaving out details and editing out facts, because this is me. This is my life but it's intertwined with others. I began to worry about opening wounds or creating new ones. I began to stress about what people might think of me.
I became mute without even recognizing it.
So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to start writing for me again. Every day. It might just be a few short sentences or a whole page of nothingness, but I need to start somewhere. My story is aching to be heard and I truly do want others to hear it. I can't let the critics in the world or in my mind allow me to fail.
I have a heart and soul to share through my words and I choose to share them.
Starting today.
I was probably 6 years old and I had this green composition notebook that I carried around with me all of the time. I mainly wrote short stories, mostly about cats.
When I got a little bit older, I was a bit more private and started keeping a diary. Each day, I would write about everything that happened to me from the moment I got up to the moment I went to bed and put pen to paper to write about it.
Then high school hit and thus the bad poetry began. Maybe not all bad, but the subject matter was always the same. The name might have changed. The words however did not. (This sadly carried over into my 20's).
I always did well in English and I've always enjoyed writing about everything. I used to have all of these ideas for short stories, novels, poetry, ect. I couldn't get the words written onto paper quickly enough.
Now, it's a bit of a struggle.
I don't seem to have the imagination I once harbored. The language of writing suddenly seems all jumbled up in my head and my mind is screaming to let them out.
When I I decided to write this memoir, what 3 or 4 years ago?, I was excited and thrilled to have a project to focus on. But suddenly, something had changed inside of me. I have all of these events and moments in my life that I wish to share with the world but I'm still a very private person and I suddenly became super vulnerable. I held back, still do, and I'm finding it hard to let go and simply write.
I started thinking on this the other day, wondering what exactly had changed when I realized it was my audience. I've always had the power to choose who did or didn't read my thoughts. Then I started blogging and my words were no longer safe in the confines of my little green composition notebook.
They were out there naked for the world to see.
I didn't realize that I was doing it, but I started leaving out details and editing out facts, because this is me. This is my life but it's intertwined with others. I began to worry about opening wounds or creating new ones. I began to stress about what people might think of me.
I became mute without even recognizing it.
So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to start writing for me again. Every day. It might just be a few short sentences or a whole page of nothingness, but I need to start somewhere. My story is aching to be heard and I truly do want others to hear it. I can't let the critics in the world or in my mind allow me to fail.
I have a heart and soul to share through my words and I choose to share them.
Starting today.
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