me and myself
me tickling the ivories while the cameras are on me; a feeling i got used to growing up :)
Writing has always come naturally to me. Since I was a little girl, it seemed as if poems had been whispered into my ears, there only release on me being to be written down. Stories would form in my mind piece by piece as I would recite them to my niece and nephew. I even went so far as to turn my sisters’ diary into articles for my ‘Family Newspaper’.
After a summer creative writing course while I was still in high school, my passion seemed to take a backburner as life entered. A chaotic, drama-induced completely unlike me took over, so much so that I was entirely too sure I was losing my mind. I never started drama, and I was constantly smack-dab in the middle of it.
One day I had found myself a graduate with a masters degree, married, a “homeowner” and finally embarking on the career path I’d earned (OK, so I earned a Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice first- a girl has the right to change her mind!)
Even then, I found myself anxiously awaiting for the moments that I could write. A letter to my students? I’ll write it. A letter to parents regarding the high school information fair? Already wrote it.
During those chaotic years, the creative person dwelling somewhere inside me began to notice something: while everyone else around me seemed to have their own “hobby” or something they were good at, I didn’t. It was true that growing up, I spent my time writing, drawing, doing tae kwon do, playing the piano in classical-piece recitals but that had all seemed to fall to the wayside only to be replaced with the stress of a boss who seemed dead-set on getting me fired and life as a grown up.
Eventually being without a job, I began to spend more quality time with my family and husband. During one particular night with no plans to go anywhere, I found myself holding pen to paper for what seemed like hours. An eternity of wondering what in the world I was doing and what I could possibly put down on the empty page that seemed to taunt my very existence.
My husband looked over to me and stated, “Oh good, you’re going to start writing again.”
Simple as that. No sugar-coated words, no “job” suggestions…just a simple statement which turned out to be an epiphany for me.
All these years of me not knowing that I did have a “hobby”, a passion, a “thing”, and suddenly I had one.
And everyone had known it except me.
Back to writing I went- full speed ahead. Poetry, short stories and ideas crammed my head. I was forced awake in the middle of the night by my need to write everything down. I started a blog to give my thoughts a specific home- though it turned into a hodge podge about my life. I began carrying around notebooks, pens, markers and frequenting coffee shops and book stores. Writing was opening up my thoughts to endless possibilities; it was making me a better person.
I went back to being happy, and feeling like I had a purpose. Even if no one ever reads anything I write, knows who I am or someone puts me and my writing down, I’m doing it.
Where it will take me? I haven’t found out yet.