Why I write.

August 10, 2010

My first journal was a green spiral notebook with "Summer of '96" written in a black marker across the front. I had a makeshift lock on it that didn't hold up and I wrote in it every day for the first month of that summer. I had just finished fifth grade and the entries consisted of what my mom cooked for dinner and who I played with in the neighborhood that day.

Since then I've never been without a journal. They became more of an outlet for me than a daily log and I would rush to them when I needed to vent. I wrote about the first boy I danced with at the junior high Winter formal. I wrote about moving into our new house at the end of eighth grade and how I was excited about the change. I wrote about how when my dog and grandfather died soon after one another before my freshman year of high school I thought I was sure to start suffering from depression. I wrote about the first time a boy broke my heart and how I was left lost and confused. I wrote about moving to Arizona and how I wasn't sure if I was happy or not, and how could I know? I wrote about how I let guy after guy move into my heart and take pieces of it each time one moved out.

When I was younger, I had what you may call an attitude. I would get so frustrated and couldn't just get it out. My mom would send to my room to "write it out" and I would come down with pages expressing how I felt. Words have always come easier to me that way.

I wrote because it was easier to articulate words on paper than it was though verbalizing. The paper was a keeper of secrets and I didn't have to share any of them with anyone else.

I write now because it's easier to articulate words on paper, or through typing, than it is through verbalizing. Whether it's my frustrations with this new transitional period in my life, or how I really love my husband, sometimes words make more sense when I've just let my fingers do the talking. And through the typing of the words, thoughts link together and answers come alive. That's the best part.

Hence, this blog has become what it's become. While I may not be good at verbalizing in real life, I promise it will come out in writing at some point through a blog post, a letter or an e-mail. Writing is my tool.
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1 comment:

  1. And then came me, gathering up all of the "talking genes" that you left behind, and not leavng much for Will... I don't like to talk about the real stuff though..and as you know, writing is not my forte, so I paint.

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