On writing

I recently went through (read: am still dealing with) some unpleasant heartbreak. And though it's by no means the first time that I have found myself being handed the fuzzy end of the lollipop, it is the first time I've tested a new way of dealing with it: writing it all down.

I couldn't tell you what drove me to do it, but write it all down I did: from the very beginning of the story to the fresh and painful end. All 9,000 words of it. And it was certainly cathartic - pouring myself and all of my focus into that project felt oddly as though it was lifting a nasty weight from my shoulders. But it also had the unexpected side effect of reminding me of how much I love to write. This is a fact that I think I was separated from during my university years, where writing became associated with essays and deadlines and general stress-induced-foetal-position-comas. But now, with my academic years behind me and a job that relies more on my organisational skills than on long bouts of writing, coming back to it feels like I am naturally settling back into a part of myself that has been hidden for a while.

When I was younger, I was convinced that I would be a writer. That it was the only possible future for me, and to entertain any other notion was just ridiculous. About a month ago, I unearthed a short piece I'd written before going to university, also entitled "on writing". In an extremely angsty and pretentious way (come on - I was a teenager, after all), I imagined a conversation with a careers guidance counsellor in which I had to defend my choice of vocation. It was overblown, melodramatic and more than a bit cringey, but some of the sentiment still resonated with me.

Writing helps me to remember things - or to forget them, if needs be. Things that I can’t express in words or actions flow out of me in torrents when I put them down on paper. So how could I not write? I’d only be half a person then, and how would anyone know who I am? More importantly, how would I know who I am? You can’t be who you truly want to be, who you truly are, when you’re surrounded by others – I’m an entirely different person whether I’m with my parents or my partner or my friends, aren’t you? But then imagine the freedom of relating everything to a completely unbiased other, one completely devoid of influence. That’s writing. A piece of paper isn’t going to tell you how to behave, or even subtly change the way you regard the world around you. It’s just a blank canvas; its sole purpose being a backdrop upon which you can express yourself. I’m only really me when I write. Or, I’m as close to being really me as I ever have been, ever will be.

Yes, it's corny. Yes, it's full of teenage outrage and self-importance. But reading back over it, I felt a little sad. Like I'd betrayed my young, teenage self, who was so sure that writing would always be a part of who she was - a part of her DNA. How had I let that slip so easily?

So here I am: re-embracing the written word, and its power to express the things I never quite manage to get across out loud. Let's hope I can stick with it this time.