Or I guess I used to be a writer. It was who I was. I’d stay up all night creating and covering my walls in pictures, paintings, and words. So many poems, and short stories. I was an aspiring journalist, I dreamed of writing books people loved and typed on forums before people even read them. I’d create characters or go places in my writing that people my age, with my limited experiences, shouldn’t have been able to go. There was honesty in my writing. I remember I won this poetry contest when I was 8. It was a super short poem, with some line about how “we come into this world with hopes and fears…” I don’t remember the rest. It won because it had truth in it. I never had to search for the realness in words – they were just there like some plentiful bounty I could tap into when insomnia struck, or I was lost, or tired, or hurt. Or when I was happy, celebrating, or thankful.
It was always there as a way to breathe and believe.
I mentioned to my sister the other day, “I used to write all the time but lost it, I just can’t write anymore.” Without skipping a beat she dismissed my silliness. “You can write, you just need to do it.”
I mean I haven’t. I just haven’t sat down and written…in a long time. Somewhere I lost it. Maybe in the chaos of my last seven startups or in the cracks of broken hearts, I stopped writing. Perhaps it was lost among the celebration of job promotions or in the boxes from cross country moves, but I stopped writing. Maybe it faded with old friendships, or it was buried with the lost loved ones I’ve mourned, there have been many. It could have been lost in the blur of travel or in the busyness of living a life so full. Or perhaps the most likely answer is the answer- I just stopped. Stopped writing, by choice or laziness or naivety. I just stopped. Like it was a dismissable behavior – something I didn’t need. But you need to breathe. And you need to believe.
truth #1 for me is: I am a writer. I write things. Some people like the things I write, others don’t and a handful of people deeply connect with the way I string my words together. And in honor of those few, or perhaps as a thank you, it’s worth reminding myself…I am a writer.
As sister reminded me – I just need to do it.
Things currently under consideration for further word stringing include: how crazy it is to live in NYC (no really this place is just whoa), how to build a brand, a long list of things I love, a letter to my mom, a letter to my dad, a bucket list (I’m finally doing it, fuck it), the slippery slide between compromise and sacrifice, how to find your rose colored glasses (a current quest), the power of meditation and pause, and the importance of remembering your truths.
[T1] : I am a writer.