As a child, I wrote all the time. I would often be found with my Vtech laptop type device writing stories. I wish I knew where they were now. I would spend hours writing them. I remember my Dad buying a specific printer when I announced I wanted to print them out for others to read. Of course, my toy laptop only used specific pre-installed printers. I really did love to write, and I did it passionately…
At some point in my teens, all of it changed. I don’t know why it did, and I can’t pinpoint the moment, but my love of writing and the passion I had for it disappeared. I stopped creating fictional lives. I gave up on the longed-for dream to become a bestselling ‘author’. It wasn’t that I stopped enjoying it, I don’t think. I just gave up writing. Perhaps other things took precedence, I can’t say with any real certainty.
Over the years, my passion for writing came and went. Mostly, it went. I tried to revive it, making several attempts at writing stories, blogs, letters. Anything really that would allow me to write. I recently resumed my history degree hoping that academic writing would aide the process – it served to help destroy it all the more. I considered my words to sound immature on paper.
The denigration of my writing comes from no one other than myself. In fact, most who have read my academic essays have declared that they are, in fact, not awful. My tutors have not been overly critical and have all raised some fair points. The general consensus is that when I write, I write well. So why don’t I see that myself? Why do I always think my writing isn’t worthy of publication?
I suppose that’s why I have started this blog. It’s an exercise in building confidence. It’s an effort to say to myself “so what if it’s shit, writing serves a purpose.” To me, writing is therapeutic. It’s a way for me to make sense of the chaos around me. One day, maybe that novel will find its way out. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t, but I’d like to continue writing and retain my love of it this time.
Why do you write?