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Why I write

The end of the rollercoaster ride is almost a month away. 2017 has been beautiful but also blunt, just like every other year before this. I learned things about myself I didn’t know I had the power to hold. I suppose, as we grow older and the same experiences begin to mean different things.

I started writing when I was about fourteen. Notebooks filled with confused emotions and racing thoughts. It filled the void for when there were no ears to listen and the blank pages because this means to immense satisfaction. Then came the age of the computers and the internet, and Blogger and the possibility of someone somewhere reading or listening to what I had to say. The first post I ever wrote was this letter to my dad on Father’s Day two years since he had passed way. For the most part since, writing became this crutch I held on to to keep that relationship alive and overtime it became a reflection of my thoughts and dreams. As the years passed, I grew and so did my writing. Letters, journals, poems, draft texts, notes…I kept writing.

Through college and work, I soared high and fell flat and found a way to pick up after myself. I found love in the strangest places. I found that strangers can sometimes make better friends. I found peace in solitude. I found kindness in giving. I found perspective through others’ ways of living. I found a way to stay grounded in the tides. I found healing in writing.

I don’t see myself as a writer. An enthusiast for vulnerable expression would be a more apt description. I do see myself as someone who has learned and grown from the words that escaped my mind. Words that were not and may not always be pleasant to those reading or listening but are calming to the storm that is brewing within.

I am grateful for the power of love and magic writing holds. Writing is about getting up, getting well, and getting over. While I may not be a writer in its truest sense, I write because it fills me with hope and is the light that guides me home. A journal in your drawer or the draft of a novel waiting to be published or quick notes on your phone or maybe letters to a stranger…don’t ever stop. Every little note, haiku or post I have written over the years, came together as this unusual yet vivid mosaic wall. A wall of rage, joy, hormones, heartbreak, fear, anxiety, friendship, love and so much more. A wall with clusters of colours ― blacks and blues with bits of golden yellow cutting through and dots of green in between. A wall of my story and my journey, when looked at in isolation were ceramic shards but when put together made a beautiful mosaic wall of memories…of life.

I leave you with one of my favourite quotes that sums up my experiences, and hope that you find your own cup of water…in whatever form of art:

Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. …this book…is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.

― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

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