I always imagined that I would become a writer. I envisioned my life with a pen and a notepad always by my side. I knew that whether I became a novelist, script-writer, or journalist, that I would always be… a writer. Like every writer, I have notebooks (and countless computer files) full of poetry and half-baked stories with no endings (or middles for that matter).
I always believe myself to have a “higher” appreciation for writers, and their work. My love of music goes far beyond rhythm, melodies, and refrains. I admire songwriting above all of those. I think this is why my music tastes have always spanned across genres; I don’t care what category it fell into as I was always more concerned with the writing*.
So, what’s the point in this post? I’m not sure. This has been on my mind, lately. More often, I’m finding myself lost in thought trying to identify why and when I stopped writing as much as I did. I try to remember what was going on in my life; what made me stop taking that pen and notebook out to parks and beaches, just to write? And, I try to figure out ways to get myself back into the habit.
Is blogging going to hurt or help? Should I get back to keeping a journal? Have I lost the ability to… well, write?
This morning, I asked myself, “Do I need to stop envisioning myself as a writer?”
I don’t want to.
*One of the things I miss about having a CD collection (all of my music is digital) is looking through the album notes and, reading song lyrics as if they were poems. Even when I got rid of the CD cases, I still kept the notes, like books on a shelf, just to keep the lyrics.