I used to write because I could not speak. I grew up a very shy timid person and had trouble talking to people and expressing my feelings, so I would have all these emotions in my body that I couldn’t express directly through speech- but I could with written words.
And that is why I blogged and journaled. That is why I found comfort in writing, even if it wasn’t perfect. It was a form of expression, of whatever feeling that was bottled up inside of me. It was sweet release, of an emotion, a thought, a way of disentangling things in my brain and rearranged through storytelling. Yet somehow as I grew older, I stopped.
I don’t know why or what happened exactly, between graduation until now, I can’t seem to get myself to write. Back then it was a necessity, a means of survival, and now when I want to do it for pleasure, it’s not coming out. Your writing is very much a reflection of who you are, and I used to write so effortlessly with the raw emotions of a young adult trying to find her footing in this world. But now, I tried to write the other day and it came out like an academic paper!! I was horrified reading back the things I wrote, because it sounded so soulless and robotic and I wonder if that is who I’ve become now. Am I boring? God forbid.
Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself, maybe I want everything to be editorial that I’m having 20 something drafts marinating itself for 5 years because none are deemed publish-worthy. I want to stop all these nonsence and go back to what writing really meant for me. I wrote for me, and I want to write for myself again. I’m not going to overthink the stories I write, I’m just going to do it. I am lady whistledown and these are my social papers. Dearest gentlest reader…