On Writing

My childhood bedroom is a tomb for diaries. In the corner of my old closet rests a plastic bin that is home to my collection- pink diaries with broken locks, sticker-covered composition notebooks, spiral-bound journals accurately named, "KEEP OUT!!" All of these diaries and more are haphazardly piled atop each other, a deranged and unstable mountain of memories. The contents of these diaries range from a neat and detailed account of having a "sub" in 3rd grade (I couldn't spell substitute at the time) to loose pages ripped out of long lost journals full of angsty teenage poetry. For years, this bin has been what defines me as a writer. Tangible artifacts that offer proof that writing has always been a part of who I am.

However, what being a 'writer' actually means to me has changed over time. The more I grew up, the less writing became something I did, and the more it became something I needed. The progression of my diary collection is all the evidence you need. My writing journey begins with a journal where Kindergarten me writes lengthy, seemingly detailed pages full of something that very closely resembles hieroglyphics. Unfortunately, we will probably never be able to decode what 5-year-old me decided was significant enough to record. I soon learned about this very important thing, the alphabet, which allows us to enter the "Here is Everything I Did Today in Order" Era. It's riveting, really. I once even drew a diagram to show exactly where everyone laid on the couch as we watched TV. Now that you're falling asleep with boredom, we'll move into the "Everything is Embarrassing in Middle School" Era. Here is where I apparently begin to discover what it means to slowly transform into something resembling an adult, while simultaneously freaking out about my crush possibly noticing that I farted during Social Studies.

But then, there is the most significant change. I grew up. I became a high schooler, and then a college student, and then an adult, and I was confronted with betrayal and heartbreak, friendship and love. My journal stopped becoming a hobby and started to become therapy. I wouldn't write for months at a time, and then suddenly I would rip open the first journal I could get my hands on and write furiously. Big, loopy letters for big, loopy feelings. Sometimes the scrambled thoughts in my head would turn into poetry, sometimes just pages and pages of questions with no answers, but, most often, they were just the jumbled up thoughts of a heartbroken girl. The act of writing helps me organize my often disorganized thoughts.

I have always considered myself a writer. My personal and academic writing history has always been rewarding. However, I have never been an organized and systematic writer. Instead, I tend to write passionately and unpredictably. I'll sit next to you at a dinner party and pompously tell you I'm a writer, even if I haven't written anything in a year. Beginning this blog is my attempt to make my writing something it's never been before. It's my way of putting myself out there exactly how I really am, a girl that personally and passionately loves writing, a girl who is definitely not as good at this as she'd like to believe, a writer who needs to be challenged.

As far as where this blog will go, and what I will feel comfortable sharing, remains to be seen. Whatever happens, I am hoping that this blog becomes an important artifact in my life, something that documents my growth, memories, thoughts, and emotions.

Don't worry though- the deepest and darkest corners of my soul will forever live away from here, in my messy, growing collection of diaries. Diaries that are somehow piling up again, but this time in the corner of my apartment.