I’m a writer. I have always been a writer – from the time I wrote a book of poems about pig and printed them out on our dot matrix along with a clip art cover.
It’s what I do for work (and hopefully will continue to do).
I’m good at it, it comes easily to me. I forget that it’s a skill that is not easy for everyone.
I forget that when I don’t do enough of it, I suffer for it.
I used to fill notebooks with journal writing and brainstorming and fiction writing. I don’t remember the last time did that. Fiction became so much harder after I went to journalism school.
But I’ve been blogging for over a decade now, and I’ve stepped away for two long. I have plans to create change in the next year and I want regular writing, my own writing to be a part of that.
I need to write through change and process thoughts out loud and share the things I learn about myself and the world and how it all ebbs and flows.
Writing is my therapy. Better than therapy actually, since I’ve now tried cognitive behavioural therapy and discovered my discomfort with it.
I need to be more me than I have been recently. I need my therapy.