On Why I Like to Write

Journals & Diaries, or pretty covers to inspire
Journals & Diaries, or pretty covers to inspire

Oh, the amount of diaries I’ve destroyed throughout my life. Horrid, embarrassing pages of teenage scrawl – evidence of awkwardness and teenage angst. I hate finding them in deep corners of my childhood bedroom; the only thing I hate more is the sadistic part of me that feels the need to read them!

Almost certainly, these diaries are no better or worse than most written during formative years. Hearts and initials scrawled in the margins. Complaints. Hopes. Dreams. From about 8 to 15 years old, I felt certain I was going to change the world. At 28, I may not have given up on that idea, but perhaps it’s a more realistically managed goal. And perhaps that is a sad thing to say. I filled pages with a cocktail of emotions, not having the words to do them any real justice.

Whatever the drivel, whatever the crisis or comment though, I’ve always loved to write. Loved the craft of it. Not being an artist, a singer, a painter or a musician, it’s been the one creative thing I could enjoy. However weak the words might be, however poorly constructed the paragraphs, they’ve been my hobby, my indulgence, and my comforter.

So often, when put on the spot, the spoken word is not my friend. It’s just too hard to say what you mean when your brain is anxiety-whipping the thoughts in your head: checking, modifying, guessing what everyone else is thinking or wants to hear. Makes it damn hard to have a conversation, in fact.

Writing, though, is different. Writing can be given time and consideration. You can check (although based on previous posts to this blog, I don’t check all that well!), craft, consider, be. Time is on your side. Worries and fears can be addressed, ignored and patted away.

Some things are easier said than done. Some things are easier written than said.

So, perhaps instead of shredding pages of glitter-covered diaries, I’ll be madly deleting these posts in a few years time, horrified at the poor writing, insignificant content and bad judgement of a given day. But I hope I’ll remember why I sat down and typed, and the moment of calm it offered.


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