I used to be a writer.
It feels strange to write that at only 28 years old, but if I'm being completely honest with myself, it's the truth.
I used to be a writer.
I used to write.
In years past I wouldn't leve my house without my planner, my journal and an arsenel of writing utensils to fill said notebooks. I would write at school - on break, at lunch, in class. I would write while out with family and friends - at dinner, at cottages, when they had gone to sleep. I would write by lamplight when my bed time had long past, and in the silence of the afternoon.
I used to write.
I have blogged since I was fifteen-years-old and journalled since long before that, I had a private blog that consisted solely of letters to the love of my life - even at 17 a part of my heart knew that Nathan was my forever love.
I kept a separate blog about my life, my confusion, my thoughts and even my poems. I wrote. and I wrote. And it never mattered if anyone even read my thoughts, or cared about them for that matter, because they were for ME. Without my written words I felt, honestly, that I might simply...die. Just, implode, from words not shared, poems not scripted, dreams not remembered and hardships not worked through. During my highschool anxiety and depression, through pulling away from my family, and finding myself as an individual, an artist, a female, a friend, a lover...I always had my words.
I used to write every day.
I have had poems published, filled numerous composition books with line after heart-broken line of praise and prose and the ache of emptiness accompanying young adulthood. Stories and books and articles from a creative writing course.
Every essay I have ever written.
I have a bound pile of letters and notes from friends I will probably never again see.
There are at least two novels started yet unfinished, even though years later I still want to know how my stories will end.
I used to write, you see.
As time has gone by aand I've learned about social media, view-counters and visitor stats, as I've watched blogs I've long admired flourish in their readership, as I myself have grown from a girl, to a broken teenager, to a lost young woman, to a wife, mother and provider...I have stopped writing.
I stopped writing when I began caring if other people READ my words. I started writing for other people, and eventually stopped writing altogether. Isn't that just so sad,,,? I'm ashamed as I sit here, coming to the realization.
I still travel with a planner and a handful of pretty mark-makers, but it isn't the same as years past. I still have this blog, but as is obvious from my archive history, it lies mostly dormant, waiting for me to fill it with words as before. I used to write and my heart aches for it. A piece of me is empty without the flow of words to fill me up. I haven't kept a paper journal in years...
And all of this...it makes me sad. A hollowed part of me hears the echoes of the words my soul is singing, but I am not recording.
I think This needs to change.
I am not setting a words goal, or promising to blog 5 days a week. I'm not setting out to record all the details of my days in a notebook kept beside my bed...My life is just not conducive to that anymore, and I don't want yet another unfinished challenge under my belt, eating away at my resolve.
But...this blog is here, as it has been for years. My iPhone has a notepad and a dayOne app I can use to record the little stories as they happen, before I lose them on the winds of fleeting thought. I can choose to spend less wasted time on instagram and twitter, and more time nourishing my soul. I can find completion through the act of putting pen to paper, finger-tips to screen, and simply starting. I can write letters to my penpals, to my friends old and new.
I used to write, and then the words would come.
Hopefully they will find me again, because in my heart...I still believer I am a writer.