On Writing

I’ve always loved writing. I’ve got tons and tons of notebooks stashed all over the house, and probably still my mother’s house. I’ve got my full, cover-to-cover, five subject from fifth grade, when we had automatic writing for ten minutes first thing every morning. I’ve got the satirical series of stories I wrote for my seventh grade gifted class. I’ve got rough drafts from the summer expository writing class I took at fifteen. Of course, I’ve got the years I spent on LiveJournal preserved for posterity on the interwebs. I even wrote a few entries on MySpace when nobody cared about the lj anymore.

You know, it’s funny. I never used the notes on Facebook when everyone moved there, and that was really when things went from bad to worse. Maybe if I’d kept writing things would have turned out differently. Maybe I just would have handled everything better with an outlet that didn’t judge my situation and my decisions. This is a complete revelation to me. I truly never considered the coincidence of not writing and bad times.

I will make an honest vow, right this instant. You can help hold me to it if you will, but I think I got this one.

I will never stop writing again.

I don’t know if I have ever made a promise to myself that’s so common sensical. I don’t even know why I should have to make it at all, why I ever stopped writing. I understand that writing will not stop the walls from falling down on me if something truly disastrous occurs, but with this realization has come superstition. Writing has become my magic charm to ward off the evil spirits. That can’t be a bad thing, can it?

And here I am today. I only started this blog a few weeks ago, but I kept a journal with my online support group from April to August. I was horribly out of practice at first, churning out stilted prose that I’m sure I would have scorned at six years old. But it’s all coming back, the flavor of the words, the flow of sentences and paragraphs, because I never lost my love of the written word, just familiarity with my own written words.

My mother once said to let her die when she couldn’t eat anymore, because what’s the point in going on if you can’t even enjoy a good meal. Let me go when words don’t mean anything to me anymore.

What does writing mean to you?