To those who may not know, I’ve always been a writer. From elementary age doodles to Young Author’s stories to a major in writing for the Media, I’ve known for a long time that it’s a big part of who I am.
So why do I struggle so much these days with doing it and committing to it? I think there are many reasons I could list but the main one is that I don’t care about it anymore. But I want to care. I think I underrate the benefits of it – the catharsis, the time just spent in my own head, fleshing out my ideas. And most recently, I want to be writing so that I care share the collective memory of our family with my daughter and any other children we might have. I know that if I’m not preserving those memories, then no one else will.
The other thing about writing that I easily forget is that I have something to contribute. In the last few years I have spent many hours reading the writing of others, especially in the form of blogs. For some reason I haven’t been writing myself, though. Honestly I think that in some ways, I didn’t want to spend that time fleshing out my feelings and thoughts. But for me, writing is self-care. I can see now that I haven’t been caring for myself if I haven’t been writing. And though I’m a somewhat private and reserved person, writing is my way of sharing myself with others.
Though this that I’m writing today is not quite what I want to say, I want to commit to do better – to share myself in one way or another. My time will only become busier, the years will get on, and I will keep saying “I’ll do it later.” I’m going to start now. Here it is.