This post was written in response to the Writing 101, Day 1 prompt: I write because….
I write because I grew up in a small town where fitting in was not my forte. I was artistic and academic, borderline hyperactive (before that was a diagnosis) and just about the opposite of athletic. I created “treasures” from items that were tossed aside, and I was overflowing with sass. The combination was one that didn’t work well for a kid navigating the waters of small town school life. At first, the fact that I didn’t fit in mattered to me. But after a while—and too many reminders that my sharp edges and rounded corners didn’t match everyone else’s—I accepted my lot in life.
I write because in kindergarten, a light went on when I learned to squeeze meaning from the squiggly lines that formed words on a page. A door was opened to new adventures and new worlds where I could easily lose myself. The public library and local bookstore became my refuge, and I hid behind the mask of a voracious reader.
I write because sometimes, when I felt lost and alone, reading was not enough. I would take out a notebook, usually in the late hours of the day when dusk turned to darkness. At first, I wrote fiction and poetry, depending on my mood. I would craft stories, churning out page after page, simply to see how much I could write and to watch the page curl under the weight of my words.
I write because as I ventured from adolescence into adulthood, my ideas and my identity were fluid and changing. I wrote my feelings and my dreams into stories as I worked to make sense of the world and my place within it. I wrote stories of realistic fiction with characters who might have been my friends.
I write because when I divorced, I needed a way to pull myself out of the all-consuming black hole that is emotional abuse. Suddenly, I was the character, and the world was my own. There were many soul-searching journal entries. Many nights of listening to the rain outside my window while my thoughts and my words spilled onto the page.
I write because once I freed myself from the abuse and regained my confidence, not writing was no longer an option. Through my journey, I had evolved into a writer. I had discovered a home in creative non-fiction. I discovered that writing my story helps me to live a better life.
I write because I never did find the place where I fit in. But fitting in is over-rated. Writing is a journey that fits perfectly with who I am.
It seems from the post that you are born for writing. Writing is a medium which helps us friend a true self during and after a difficult time. You are very strong and it shows it from your words. So write on fellow blogger, looking forward to read more of your posts.
Best
Garima
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Thank you for your kind words, Garima. I believe I have found much of my strength through writing.
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I love this! Such a great start to the assignments. I’m behind too so don’t worry we’re now at the same point.
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Thank you.
(I am glad to know I am not the only one who is behind!) 🙂
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I find words provide a refuge that can feel more comfortable than a warm blanket.
Fitting in truly is overrated, but it’s always great to find another outsider. 🙂
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Thank you for your reply, and for the great metaphor!
I love that we are “outsiders.” Makes us seem mysterious…. 😉
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And everyone loves a good mystery!
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Absolutely beautiful! I can relate 🙂 Nice to read from you, looking forward for some more.
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Thank you!
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