i write

There’s nothing I need to get off my chest other than the fact that I just need to stop giving myself excuses on writing.

I do this all the time.

I begin writing an entry–even one here!–and then it takes me days upon days to simply finish writing the full story I wanted. Finally, I write around half of something that I am alright with, but I never seem to “wrap it all up.” So, a lot of what is written gets left in the drafty-drafts sections because I never get back to them. Or when I do, I can’t remember all the details that occurred.

That’s pretty much wasting time, is it not?

It’s almost like having this blog be in complete secrecy to the people and friends that know me. More than once, I have been told that I write well. The internal critic in me says I suck, but surely, that happens to everyone that has always loved to write; sometimes it just seems like we are too shy to call ourselves “writers” because we view”real writers” as the true noblemen and noblewomen that have penmanship skills. Yet, a friend of mine (who is a writer) told me, “What is the point of you keeping this blog to yourself if you’re not going to share it with the world? Share it. I am sure you have much to share and much for others to learn from you.”

But, the truth is that I know deep down I should consider myself a ‘writer,’ just as any jogger may be too humble to call themselves a ‘runner.’ The truth is that I have kept a journal since 2nd grade. I don’t write everyday , I don’t follow prompts (but I collect them on Pinterest for future-start-up-ideas), I don’t write original stories, and I definitely don’t write with as much description and imagery as I wished.

I write whenever I feel something so deep that I just need to get it out of me before I lose grasp of what feelings overtake me. I do my best to write grammatically correct, but more so, I care about just writing truthfully. Rawly. Even if the phrases and sentences become run-on sentences. Sometimes that’s all that comes to mind and my written words are just a singular thread without a flow–just a stream of thoughts that hopefully capture a glimpse of everything that is so clear in my head.

I write in the middle of the night with calming, melancholy music in my earphones; reminding me of how small the world is; reminding me that life is all a constant cycle of night and day and it never stops. Because the world does not stop, I find my greatest focus at 2 or 3 in the morning. Everything is silent and the idea that I am the only one awake within my own surroundings makes my night more intimate, more personal. It makes it easier to tap into the many thoughts that I cannot put into words during the day. Briefly, it is then that it feels as if time has stopped, but I know better. I simply let myself entertain the idea of freezing time, even when the morning sunlight has begun to creep underneath my window blinds.

I write when I am barely even conscious of what I am actually writing, like right now. At this very moment, I have my eyes closed and I am simply “speaking” my mind. By writing when my mind grows sleepier, it allows me to filter through, to not care so much of the words I am typing out. Somehow, they are just coming out and that is all that matters.

However, my point of all of this was to allow myself to write. To see what comes of it. To see whether or not this constant practice will push me to write something I have always dreamed of–a memoir or just a place where my thoughts are collected. I always go back and forth…memoir? non-fiction with research studies to support the themes I want to present throughout?

Je ne sais pas.

But, tomorrow is another day.

Just write honestly. There will one day be people that know how to value your work.





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