I am not a writer. I’d like to be one. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’m entranced by my imagination of a writer’s lifestyle — secluded little place in the woods, late mornings with good coffee, and freedom to do your work as you please with the sunlight streaming through the windows.
But I know that’s not the reality. Unfortunately. Unless I make it one.
The point is, I like writing. But I’m not sure it’s something I could do as a profession. Although, as a social worker, my case notes tend to border on being a short novel. I guess I’m more of a wordy person than a numbers person. Fingers tapping away at the keyboard or pen in hand scrawling some lines and dots, I enjoy writing (I don’t enjoy hand cramp though).
I write about my life and my thoughts because that’s all I know. I’m not smart enough to write fiction, non-fiction or poetry. I only know how to babble on.
My writing has changed over time. Like me. I used to write for others. I wanted them to like me, to think I was cool. But now, the thought of me doing that again makes me cringe a little inside.
I write for myself now, and I don’t like sharing with family or friends. None of them know about this blog. None of them know I keep a journal. Yes, I still hand-write a journal even though I technically blog about my life. There are some thoughts that are just too intimate to be set free into the public domain.
I want to write, but I also need to write. I need to write because I’m forgetful. If I don’t write things down, I’ll lose the memory. Writing somehow cements things for me. It’s like a balloon being tied down with a ribbon so it doesn’t float away and become lost forever. I need to write because the thoughts clog up my brain. Writing is a release. It’s like slowly letting out steam over time instead of allowing the pressure to build up and explode.
I am not a writer. I never will be. I just like writing.
[I have written this post as part of the Weekly Writing Challenge this week.]