Writing is a passion. It’s an art developed over a lifetime. Some days the words come to me slowly and others days… all at once. For me, it’s been a long, winding road of self-discovery and introspection. If you listen closely enough you will hear melodious tones throughout. The ebb and flow of each letter gracefully chasing after the one before. I pour my story onto a blank sheet praying the pen catches up with my thoughts. I could never write within lines. I never want to have my words put into a box to fit someone else’s skewed reality. My writing is a manifestation of all the moving parts of my life–the good, the bad and indifferent. Being able to express and release what’s on my mind into written form is a sense of immense freedom I think only writers can truly understand.
Linguistically, writing is defined as “the activity or skill of marking coherent words on paper and composing text.” To me, writing is so much more than that. It’s a delicate dance between the words in my head and what I allow the world to taste of them. E.L. Doctow said, “Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.” That’s what writing is–an exploration of self, of life, of one’s own existence. As I grow older, I notice I am becoming more cognizant of my writing. Not so much of what I write, but how and why I write. There’s this profound reason behind it all. I don’t write for me. For my own self-delusions. I write because I believe as humans we all have a common thread running through us. That we all yearn to be loved and valued. We want to be accepted not just by others, but by our own selves. Through my writing, you’re able to peek into my world and perhaps, through that, you find your own light as I finally have.