I try to remember just when it was I felt the need to let my feelings out through words. When it was that I became a writer.
Maybe I was still so young thinking hadn’t yet felt like writing.
The words back then were always in the background, always around long enough
to feel like the normal. Sometimes they would come like a series of beautiful melodies streaming through the leaves of tall trees, stirring just enough magic and beauty to catch my attention. And once they did, they would hold me hostage.
You see, to experience the connection between creativity and inspiration is a divine experience. To feel that the words come to you and that you’re in charge of bringing them into being is miraculous conception. And once you begin to experience that, writing changes from a hobby to a need. From recreational use to full-fledged addiction.
Whenever I put pen to paper I taught myself to experience sadness as if I were a narrator, floating over it and over my body, over the story, like the first time I smoked pot in college and could no longer sense reality. With each stroke of the pen I detached from my pain a little more until it all just turned into words on paper. Some fragile thing to crumble up and toss away. So different than the monster I had first sat down with.
Writing has helped me realize the things we often consider so serious are temporary. And it also taught me that just because a feeling is interim, it doesn’t mean you should ignore it. It doesn’t mean it isn’t worth slowing down and paying attention to. Sometimes you just need to take time to lick your wounds. Sometimes you just need to look at the hurt and say “I see you.” Sometimes that’s the only way to heal.
And writing has healed me so many times I’ve lost count.