Writing
A Cathartic Pastime
Writing was not only a hobby, but a lifeline when I was a kid. Reading is how it started, of course.
Reading
is how you
discover the power of words. As cliche as it may sound, words have the power to hold you captive in an
entirely new and
wonderful world.
Teachers in middle school knew me as the girl who walked the halls between classes with my head buried
in a
book and
talked about becoming a writer. The unwavering confidence with which I regurgitated the same answer
whenever
the subject
came up is what had even me convinced my dream would come true. What better job to have as a grownup
than
creating my
own fantasy world where I was in control of every outcome, good or bad.
Talk about a God-complex, right?
I consider it a constructive way to escape reality, and I’m proud of those years I spent cultivating my
dream even if it
didn't turn out quite the way I thought it would. I still write. I still want to publish a book someday.
For
now, I keep
a journal where I write about some of the toughest times in my life. Huge thanks to my therapist for
suggesting those
writing exercises when I told her I enjoyed writing, by the way.
My hobby has turned into a therapeutic outlet. It means I can maintain an honest record of my own
struggles
and
achievements while keeping the publishing-one-day door wide open. My perspective is not the same now as
when
I was a
teenager or even last year. People grow and evolve. I don't want to create a fantasy world anymore. I
don't
want to
create a neat storyline heading towards a happy ending for everyone. That's what I needed as a kid;
predictability. Now
I want to write about the real deal, so to speak. I'm interested in memoirs. Every page of the memoirs
I've
read are
infused with vulnerability and grit, with a raw candor. That’s the kind of story I want to tell.
One day.