I got my first journal at 5. I remember my mom telling me to try and write in it every day, or at least when something important happened. My first diary came at the age of 7. It was named Hannah after my best friend I was leaving in St. Louis upon my family’s return to the forgotten stomping grounds of Shreveport, Louisiana. Hannah had a passcode lock as well as a key- the tell-tale sign that its owner had reached the ultimate state of maturity. Nevermind the Precious Moments cover and the pages filled with illustrations of how I thought my first crush moved his Bible next to my chair while I wasn’t looking... Nevermind that. It was confessions of childhood and how wonderful everything seemed.
It’s true that life got more complicated, but I don’t think it ever really changed. We’re really no different than we used to be. We just want to be excited about something. It used to be about a vacation or a slumber party with friends. I remember going to my friend’s house as a kid and making mental notes of all the fun stuff we were doing so I could go home and tell my mom how awesome it was. Call me silly, but I still do that. I’ll call my mom occasionally and “update” her on things that are going great in my life; I don’t do it because I think she wants to know. I mean, I pretend that that is why but we both know she doesn’t really care. I grew out of her caring about that years ago. But the truth is that I’ve always just wanted to tell someone the things that I think, the things that I feel, the things that I’m excited about. And they don’t really have to listen. I mean, I don’t expect anyone to really listen. I am a scientist. I am a professor. I am a lady bug. I am a thief. I am a child. I am a nomad. I am a homebody. I’ve never met a soul that matches mine.
I think that’s why I started writing. I look back at this blog and my old diaries with pages torn out and wonder why I’ve always written. It wasn’t to show off a grandiose vocabulary. I’m really not that great of a writer--I don’t think about how to say something best or how to make some statement more flowery or appealing. I don’t fully develop ideas. My writing is simple, ADD, fast-paced. It’s closest to the speed of thought. Thoughts jump around and don’t dwell on important topics long enough. They bounce around, but with a taste of pain, resolve and pride, they achieve some type of steadfastness and self-discovery.
My writing is honest. Truth be told, I always wrote as if the paper was my closest friend, kind of a subcreature of me- one that had thought all of my thoughts before, but maybe needed a little reminding. This subcreature was one that understood and didn’t judge any of my thoughts; one whose rebuttal was in fact part of the writing. This subcreature was a part of me, but somehow separate. So, maybe it’s a twisted view of writing. It’s not just writing to me. It’s the conversations and thoughts to myself—the things would take so long to explain to anyone else, if I were courageous even enough to do that. Essentially, writing is my comfort zone. No one has ever been as close to me as a pen and paper.
“Writing defines what kind of person one is. One's personality is revealed just by observing his or her writing style. In fact, writing is not really as profound as many make it out to be. It is basically being yourself, and having the courage to put down ideas into words. It is not the wide range of vocabulary used that makes writing beautiful, but the personality we delve from within an essay that is truly poignant… To me, writing is a journey of self-discovery.”
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. ~Vita Sackville-West
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