I’ve been steadily writing for over 20 years but never considered myself a writer. Writers are artists like
. Writers weave words into tapestries. They write because they must—they wilt and fade if they stop putting words onto a page. I wither when my house is untidy.Perhaps it’s because I’ve had very little training in writing. I took one required composition course in college but this is the homeschool writing quality we were starting with:
These days I typically write for a specific reason: academic papers, exhibits, or analyses. My writing is serviceable. It gets the job done.
It wasn’t until the pandemic hit that I tried something new: writing about myself. Narrative therapy unlocked the door and out tumbled forgotten memories and realizations about who I am and where I’ve come from. The more I wrote, the better I felt. Processing my grief and anger and fear through writing is therapeutic.
I have thoughts and opinions (lots) and I’m not afraid to share them publicly. But doing it well is another matter. This year I decided to tackle a formidable writing project and realized that I don’t want to settle for serviceable writing. I’d like to be a good writer. I can take classes and work with other writers, but at the end of the day, I need to write. A lot.
So here’s the substack. I’ll write about things that are itching inside my brain but hopefully with fewer metaphors that evoke bug bites and scratching.
If my writing prompts your own reflections, I’d love to hear about it. I write best in community.
Relatable!! From the messy house situation (It wilts me too!) to the way writing unlocks unprocessed memories as if by magic. Here’s to the recovery journey!