Why I Write

Everyone is a writer. From the shortest of tweets to personal journals to the longest blog posts and the next great novel, they are all forms of written communication used to express something. We each have our reasons for putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, though that doesn’t the same ring to it.) In high school, I found myself using writing as an outlet to deal with all my teen angst. In particular, poetry became my primary expression of the myriad of emotions and intense life struggles I felt. I’ve shared a few from that time and some written since here on the blog.

In the last few years, I decided to launch this blog and publicly share some of what I write in the hopes that those ideas would resonate with the world. Or at the very least, my circle of friends would form a closer connection with me. But there are a few core pillars to the reasons why I write in the first place.

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The Little Black Book of Travels

I enjoy traveling. It’s not just for the experiences and seeing new places and things, but for the mental space to think that it provides. Ever since my first international trip, I’ve kept a written journal of events and reflections from those adventures. It’s a great way to remember details about what you saw and did, but also a good time to document what’s happening in your life.

Whenever I get away from home, I start seeing things more clearly. So it’s been important for me to find some time daily to sit down and write about anything. Each trip, I usually start with a new journal and this time is no different. This year, I have my “little black book” for my more personal reflections and thoughts that rarely get shared. I recently went back to read through my 2011 sabbatical journal and was instantly transported back to so many fond memories and places I visited. I even was reminded of scents and weather where I had sat in parks or cafes to write.

Even if you don’t consider yourself an avid writer, I’d recommend everyone have their own traveling little black book to document your adventures, no matter how sparse or dense the details may be for you. These written journals turn out to be great keepsakes and a better way to go back and remember compared to your social media posts or public blog posts.

You Will Have a Hard Time Reading This: A Story About My Handwriting

handwriting

This year, I’ve told myself I want to do more writing and ultimately share some of my thoughts here on the blog. Some of that writing happens on my computer(s), but the rest of it happens on good old pen and paper with ideas and thoughts scattered across various notebooks. It was there I realized that there was another story on the paper beyond just the words I wrote.

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The Worth of Storytelling

I’ve never considered myself good at telling a story or being able to deliver an elaborate joke that ends up at a ridiculous groan-worthy punchline. When there is a room of people whose eyes are on me, I frequently clam up and fail to find the right words or style to keep attention and interest in the story. But there’s something else that’s hindering me before I even begin.

I don’t believe my stories have any inherent worth.

I’m not sure when, but in the past, I told myself nobody wanted to hear from me, from the real me. Or perhaps more pointedly, most people didn’t want to hear about me. The story of my life is so unique and specific to my experience that I have very often found it difficult to find the right words. Rarely have I met people who share the crossover of family dynamics, sibling relationships, education, and personal interests. Who would understand me? Who would get me at all? So I choose to stay mostly silent. I even have some personal writings from my high school & college days that reference this same sentiment. I’ve long believed my story is not relatable. I guess some things don’t change with time.  

I am comfortable in being a supporting voice & role, sometimes to a fault and the detriment of my needs. I’m more comfortable reacting to what I hear than being what is reacted to. I give the voice of others more weight than my own. What they need to share is more important than what I do.

I’m a better listener than a storyteller. At least that’s the story I’m telling myself.

So what’s been holding me back? I’m afraid that when I do share about me, nobody will want to listen to what I say. What if I speak into the ether, and my words fall flat? What if I bare my soul, and someone makes my story about their story in 3 moves or less? What if they simply don’t care?

The thing is all that doesn’t matter, right? There is a part of all of our lives that will, not just can, speak to someone. I am often scared to open up for fear of not making a connection, which I have associated with rejection.

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” – Ernest Hemingway

While my writing does connect to private parts of my life, whether or not I’ve publicly written or talked much about what hurts in an open and honest way is a wholly different conversation. I want to keep working towards honest writing, even when it may hurt to put those words and stories out there. I know it won’t be easy, and I won’t post that often with that level of depth, but it’s something to work on this summer.

All stories have worth. Maybe writing more of them down will show me that mine does too.