​I Write, Alright?

A tribute to the art of jouraling.

Someone once said, “No experience is complete until I have written it down.”  If this is the mark of a true writer, this is me. But I would no sooner call myself a writer than a brain surgeon or a fighter pilot.  I simply hold the profession in too high of regard.

In the second grade, I won a school-wide contest for writing a story about a hippopotamus that had no friends.   Shortly after, my writing turned much darker: I penned a story about a doll that came to life and killed her mean family.  (Have I mentioned I was a troubled child?)  I didn’t win any prizes for that one.  But, for the record, that Chuckie movie came out after I channeled my inner horror novelist. 

I went on to join the high school paper and to receive positive feedback from my journalism teacher and general readers alike.  In college, my professors praised my writing skill, style, and/or “voice.”

I loved writing. But I never pursued it as a profession.  I didn’t want to be a reporter, forced to convey creative updates about community- or world - events. I was never into trashy “romance” novels, or even the concept of trashy romance, for that matter, so that genre was out.  I am not especially politically minded, and I don’t like science fiction. 

Basically, my writing has to do with me.  It’s how I process… how I digest, metabolize, or negotiate my life experiences and what they mean to me.  I also write to reach others who can relate.  I write because it makes me happy. 

The fact is I may not be “a writer.”  But I write. 

healing, journaling, narrative
​#imawriter