(Celebrating 1 Year of Bright Stars Big Mountains Part 1)
A little over a year ago I started writing this blog, for no other reason that because I missed writing for the sake of writing, and I missed sharing my writing with other people.
I’ve always written for the sake of writing, for the pure joy of putting words down on paper. I was going through boxes of my old things in my parents’ basement over Christmas this year when I found stories I’d written in elementary school, including my Young Author’s award-winning book, “Why Me?”. I also found stacks of old journals and a few essays I’d written for English class in high school. Reading through all of these reminded me of how much pleasure it has always brought me to lose myself in creating a story and to share it with other people.
I declared a major in writing in college, really, for no other reason than because I liked writing and thought I was pretty good at it. I cultivated a real passion for reading and writing during those years, though, and when I graduated I identified myself, probably for the first time in my life, as a writer.
I didn’t get my dream job in writing straight out of college, and, honestly, I still don’t have my dream job as a writer (and, ok, if I’m being really honest, I’m still not quite sure what that job is). But I still—I always—write. Sure, I’ve gone through spells where I haven’t written and I’ve had dark moments where I’m sure I’m not good enough to even call myself a writer. I always come back to it, though. And here’s why:
- Writing is my therapy. It’s not just that writing down what scares or worries or saddens me that is therapeutic, although that’s definitely part of it. Often times, when I sit down to write about what’s bugging me—when I sit down and just let the words flow, without too much thought or judgment—I get to the end of a piece and realize that it took me somewhere I never expected, and that I learned things about myself in the process that I didn’t realize or understand before I started writing. Like when I wrote this post about grief a couple months ago. I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling or, more than that, why I was feeling what I was feeling until I’d written through it. I felt lighter, freer, after I finished writing that piece, which brings me to my next point.
- I love having written. Don’t all writers? I love having completed a piece of writing, in part, because I almost always learn something new about myself when it’s done. I also love having written because the process of actually writing can often be a frustrating, agonizing, pain-in-the-ass endeavor and when it’s over, even if you’re sure what you’ve written is a load of crap that no one will ever read, at least it’s DONE. Finally, I love having written because that’s when people get to read what you wrote and, even if you’re sure it sucks, sometimes people actually enjoy reading it, and, even better, they tell you they enjoyed it and that it touched them in some way, and there’s just nothing better than that.
And that’s it. That’s why I write. It’s so simple but so important, and so much a part of who I am.
Thank you for reading and for sharing your thoughts and comments over the past year! You are also a huge part of why I write, so thank you for giving me another reason, and an opportunity to do so.