I’m still kind of uncomfortable saying I’m a “Writer”. I always felt a writer was someone who got paid to do it. You know…novelists, magazine writers, journalists. Writers. But I’ve decided lately that I am a writer. There, I said it. And I’ve been saying it out loud the last few months, too. Do I get paid to write? Nope. Do I care about that? Nope!
I’ve been writing things down for as long as I can remember. My mom gave me a box of my old elementary school stuff about a year ago, and there were my homemade bound books with my stories in them. Some were on the cutting edge, folks. The Human Bean (that was right after I discovered it was really “being” not “bean”. Pivotal stuff for a six year old!) I also wrote journals. Tons and tons of journals. Only I called them diaries back then. (At what age do you decide to call them journals so you don’t feel like you’re ten?) I wrote because I loved it. I wrote because I had to, to keep my sanity, for whatever reason. It wasn’t because I was assigned to write things in school. Something inside compelled me to write, whatever it was.
Now that I’m a full on adult (or so they tell me), I still write. All the time. I have lots of avenues. I have this funny little blog here that you five people read (thank you five people!), I have my journal that I still write in, only it’s on my computer instead of in a pink hardbound book with a lock on it. I carry around a notebook so I can write when and where I want to. I still love paper and pen. Handwriting. There’s just something about the actual act of writing that is so satisfying and good.
I have this huge event coming up in less than two weeks (yikes!) at work, and I decided it would be a great idea to write a book for the attendees. Don’t worry, there’s lots of pictures in it to fill in the pages. But it’s a whole different type of writing that I’m not used to doing. I feel like I should be writing it like a newspaper article or something. You know, like a real journalist, say things like “henceforth” and not say things like “stoked”. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t love it. I’m not great at it. I’m not great at writing deadlines either, it makes me freak out then I waste time thinking about the deadline and not writing. It’s not inspiring. I’m great at writing when I’m inspired to write, and writing what I want, not what someone tells me to write about. It’s tough to force inspiration (that, my friends, is a whole other post). This is such a good exercise for me, though, to totally step out of my comfort zone and stretch myself. This book I’m almost finished with is not perfect, no way. But there are parts of it I’m totally proud of. And parts of it that I got from Wikipedia and just re-worded it enough. Ha! Hey, I’m learning! Besides, isn’t that what Wikipedia is for?
Maybe this journalistic thing isn’t my shtick. And that’s totally okay! I think it’s important to write your own aesthetic, whatever the heck that ends up being. My aesthetic? I don’t know, I guess it’s saying stuff like “you guys!” and “uuugh” and telling you embarrassing stories about me. Whatever, I can do what I want, I’m not an infant.
So, thanks for letting me write to you, guys. It means a lot that you come back to read my stuff. (you do come back…right?) Writing this blog would be no fun without you!
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