I’ve been writing since I was a little girl. I used to go down into my dad’s office, start up the big Macintosh, and open the old word processor. I’d spend hours typing stories about anything and everything. They never really made sense, and I can tell you that I was no child prodigy when it came to storytelling.
Flash forward 10 years later.
I’m in my junior year of college, and the weeks are passing by in the blink of an eye. My undergraduate education is slowly coming to an end. I can do nothing but sit and watch as it goes. I busy myself with classes, extra-curricular activities, work. When the stress of life starts to wash over me and I feel overwhelmed, I need something to turn to. And that’s where writing comes in.
Personal writing has never been, and never will be, “just a hobby” for me. It’s not something I do purely for the sake of checking points off a list, or so my resume stands out, or something casual because I don’t have anything else to do that night.
It’s everything.
It’s a lifeline for me in a world where I find myself losing touch too quickly. It’s my passion, how I add color to the black and white parts of my life. It’s where I empty my thoughts and emotions and deepest parts onto the page. Everyone has something she considers “hers”, and writing is mine.
I have random pieces of writing that clutter my journals and desk and folders. I have scraps taped to the wall, drafts on my computer that I may never get to, half-finished notes in my phone that I started randomly at 2 in the morning. But none of that bothers me. When it comes to this, arranging would only slow me down. It’s a kind of organized chaos, and it reminds me that I’m doing what I love. It means I’m doing something right, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.