writing

writing, in a formal literary sense, has never been that important to me. i mean, i enjoyed studying english at school and did so at a decent level during senior high school, but i have never thought of myself as or considered being a 'writer'. my enjoyment of books and stories is only something i've developed as i've matured and i continue to indulge.

but as i read this article from Art House America (a site well worth your visit), i realised and wondered that maybe, just maybe i am a 'writer'...in some sense at least. in my early youth i began journaling, mostly prayers and lame poems - very lame poems - but since then i haven't really stopped. although there have been long droughts, i have remained fairly faithful and after reading this article am feeling quite redeemed about my secret writing history. Andi Ashworth has some beautiful histories herself, that she has 'frozen in time' through journaling. i love her sentiments captured in this passage;

'When the days were written down, they were noticed and remembered. Instead of fading with the passage of time, they were preserved. They had meaning.'

so, i write. i write to release that confusion captured inside, that beauty seen around me and respond in gratitude to the author and perfecter of all things. for what am i created to do, i am unsure. but to record and decode that around me, seems to make sense of who i am here. a little anyway.

i get very excited about buying a new journal, finding an old one and taking up in the middle of a lost-but-found-again one. i sometimes flick through the ruffled edges of days past, remembering friends who've been in my life and things that have been important to me. i think it is a real gift, being able to enjoy the act of writing down. even notes, lists - simple things. one thing i envy is the act of writing a melodious line, strung together in a tune. hmm, it is such a sweet thing. but i will remain content in the writing that i do. what about you?

a.