So I’ve been writing since I could write. Since writing was drawing. Since the drawings began accompanying the words. Since the words dropped the drawings and filled their own pages.
That’s mainly been manifested in ongoing journaling that hasn’t stopped to take a breath since I was thirteen.
Over the years I’ve written “on the side” – poetry, lots of poetry, what I learned later was called ‘prose,’ stories, chapters of non-existent novels, academic theses, newspaper articles, marketing materials, social media content.
It was only recently I finally came to terms with the idea that I don’t have to be a novelist to be a successful writer. To be successful. To be published. I realized somewhere in year seven or eight of my blogging habit that I’m – a writer. Successful. Published.
And it doesn’t much matter, anyway; something I subsequently learned. I just have to keep going, keep exercising, and maybe it’ll never stop. Maybe something amazing will happen. Maybe being a writer is never feeling 100% sure of yourself. Maybe it’s never being satisfied. Maybe it’s believing I will someday be satisfied, but that day will actually never come.
Maybe it’s about being able to express myself to you better this way than I ever would dare in spoken word.
So the pages and pages I’ve filled – in notebooks or blog posts – they’re doing something… I hope. For me as a writer. Proving me a writer. Being me, a writer.
Something else I’ve learned: my handwriting is a secret language you can only understand if you’re me at the time of writing.