Wednesday, September 15, 2010

On Writing

I don't think I could stop writing. See? I wrote 'could.' I 'can' stop writing. I can physically stop writing thoughts, observations, musings and commentary. But then what happens? Then I have all kinds of words and phrases bubbling over in my mind's cauldron. It's got to come out somewhere. There have only been a few times in my adult life when I have stopped writing, and most of those circumstances were shadowed by tragedy or immense self-doubt.
I have a journal that sits beside my bed and once in awhile if my mind's gears are working and turning over something troubling, I'll uncap my pen and write it out. It's therapeutic. Oftentimes by the final period of the page I've concluded my worry or solved my own issue. That's the deeply personal stuff, the raw, very honest insight to my mind. It's scary to read back, and so that's something I don't often do. It's my paper toilet where I can purge my thought-vomit and be done with it. Flush.
But aside from my economic form of psychotherapy, writing is how my world makes sense. It's how I process healthy thoughts, beautiful thoughts, funny thoughts. It's how I best express myself. I find great peace and satisfaction in finding the exact right word, descriptor. I embrace who I am. Though I may not get paid for it, though I may have very little published, I am a writer.

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