This should not come as a surprise to anyone, but I love writing. There is something about the process of putting words together that makes me happy.
(Oddly enough, the other thing I love is singing, which is also related to words, but I digress…)
But I have a confession to make: I haven’t been writing lately.
I put aside my current work in progress, an epic fantasy that I love love love to pieces, because my time and creative energy was being siphoned by the singing lessons and the homeschooling work and just life in general. So I left the novel alone and cried bitter tears over the loss of my writing time. (Okay, not really. But I was bitter about the loss of my writing time, I just figured it wasn’t worth it to complain out loud about it.)
For months I’ve been not writing and feeling guilty about it.
But, you know, a funny thing happened. Just about the time I stopped writing my novel, I picked up my nearly forgotten journal and I started filling its pages again. I’d forgotten how good it felt to write with a pen on paper, and share my thoughts and feelings and joys and concerns about my own life. Sure, I would die of embarrassment if anyone read my journal. Even I don’t go back and read it usually. But still, that writing feels just as good as my novel writing does.
And that’s when I realized that I have been writing, just in a different format. Writing is writing. I am still expressing myself, and though the audience may be different, the words in my journal are just as important as the words in my novel.
So yes I am a writer. I write a lot. Almost daily. I write down lots of stories and thoughts and feelings. It’s all good stuff. Though much of it I write for me and me only these days.
And that’s okay, too. Someday I’ll get back to writing something for the rest of the world.
But for now, I write for me.