Last night I wrote a letter to a friend.
Not because she’s hundreds of miles away and the only way to reach her is by (snail) mail. No! I wrote the letter because it is easier for me to fully express myself in writing than it is by speech/conversation.
I write to express myself.
I’ve just found that over the years it has always been easier and better for me to write down my thoughts than to just tell it. By writing you have the time to indulge, correlate, analyse, and conclude your ideas, thoughts, and feelings. But while speaking to someone, there’s always the opportunity to interrupt, distract, sidetrack, and derail someone’s train of thoughts. And lets face, we all make use of that opportunity without remorse, more often than not.
I can tell you, I have owned journals and diaries and notebooks, piles of post-it notes stuck together, and pieces of paper with information on it. And in my adult years I’ve filled more books than probably in my entire teenage life.
The correct words always tend to fail me, for some strange reason.
The fact that I am an introvert gives me more justification. It has always been my experience in a group of people, that everybody likes to talk. What happens when everybody talks? No one listens! And that has always been my role in life, whether willingly or forcibly done. Some people tend to ask questions and then answer those questions themselves. Which in itself is a topic for another blog post all together, but that has always been my experience.
I write because the world doesn’t listen.
Don’t get me wrong! I believe the universe will align itself according to the desires of your heart; what you dream you can achieve. But the people of this world tend to not care whether you get there or not, they don’t care what’s on your mind, and generally wont give you the opportunity to express yourself, especially if you don’t operate at the same pace as everyone else. Which is all me.
I write to achieve my dreams and goals.
I write about the ideas in my head so they become something more than just an idea. On paper it becomes tangible, flexible, realistic, and attainable. By writing down an idea I feel like that is my way of setting something in motion; putting the idea down in pen ink makes it permanent for me. And when I read through my books and journals years later and see an idea that has already been fleshed out and planned, I feel ready to tackle it, and make it happen.
I write to let things go.
Which brings me back to the letter I initially wrote to my friend. I wrote the letter to explain to her my position in life as it is right now. I wrote the letter to explain my hurt feelings and where I’m coming from. I wrote the letter as a means of extracting all those pent-up frustrated feelings out of my head and down on paper so that I can just let it go. If she doesn’t respond to the letter, that is fine; the ball is now in her court. But I feel lighter and stress-free because of the letter.
But . . . this desire to write is funny to me in an ironic kind of way.
I can remember hating English language classes in high school. I failed miserably at literature as well; I can only remember reading 2 books my entire literature career (in high school that is). Not to mention I flunked (badly) at the Communications course that was required for University.
How can someone go from hating anything English language-y to hosting their own personal blog, while contributing to another blog, and planning to write books upon books of wild stories?!
It’s mind-boggling to me.
I’m at the point now where I’m considering returning to University to complete a second degree in the Art of Communication, Journalism, and/or Fictional Writing.
Writing just tickles my fancy.
I write because I am a Writer; I am a Writer because I love to write!