Let’s not even start with the apologies because it would just be superbly ranty and not pretty and we all know how it would go down, yes?
A few months or a year into my twenties, I began to identify myself as a writer. My work before university and this blog to a great extent contributed towards this little thought (it’s been six years on this blog btw, woots!) and then it was a matter of consistently blogging and switching identities between “writer” and “blogger”.
Following graduation I found employment as a writer and did not fall in love with it as expected. Since I’m not a naturally-inclined love at first sight person, I assumed that the “love” would flow in, but it didn’t. The place was great and I have friends with whom I still keep in touch with today, but I felt constantly underworked and under-utilised. Third world pains influenced by industrialisation and slavery, I know.
It was after that, did I find employment in the sort of work that I do today. Like most exciting phases, there was a drop in excitement and momentum and taught me the painful lesson of monotony (which on a regular day I would have an abundance of appreciation for) and moulded me towards making life a journey towards seeking content.
That year of employment too did undergo some amount of changes (for the better) as I found myself in the chair of a story teller, which is a role I am a huge advocate of but never real gave much thought in to playing. There is some writing involved, some writing that involves thought and perception in order to tell stories that I have not attempted to before but the rest of my work seems to have been woven into mundane administrative duties that I am told is a mark of career progression, lol.
One thing that has remained constant and one thing I have tried to keep constant was my compulsive note-taking that on more personal occasions, journal entries.
I’ve kept many journals as a child and even owned a few of those that were literally under lock and key! I think it comes from my need to document things and not relying on my brain to remember and recall information, lol (that education later taught me to have been a trait influenced by colonisers, oops) – and the journal-force was oh-so strong in my pre-teens and early-teenage years.
I like to think that my writing “journey” then moved towards poetry, short stories and of the likes in my mid-teenage years. Once school was out however, the creative writing stopped, the reading (fiction mostly) stopped and I was employed.
University called for the compulsory reading and writing that could not be evaded at no cost and as an English major it was something that would’ve been shameful to outsource!
Much later on, this blog, which was established in my late teens, became a space where I grew to find solace in writing and while I did not get (as) up close and personal with these pieces of writing as I would’ve once been with a journal, it was a happy place to spend time in. It was about the same time that I also began making my writing and myself (even!) more personal and less private, if that makes sense.
Simultaneously, it was around a similar period of time did I learn that writing like any other activity done with complete attention was a stress reliever of sorts. This led to writing as means of documenting experiences that usually helped some of us better deal with situations.
What happened next however was quite similar to how most people treat religion. I began writing only when I was sad or depressed. When they said good comedy is difficult to write, they weren’t lying.
Looking back at 2015, as I usually tend to when the second half of the year tends to whiz by, it’s not only been a fabulous year overall but it has by far been one of the busiest I can recall to date. I would like to say “few weeks back” but in reality now that I look back on my calendar and planner, it seems like “May” that may have marked the beginning of the rush that I’m still running alongside with, right now. It was constantly a lot of effort that went into balancing work, family, friends, the not-so-sporadic yoga and cardio routines and the new found bundle of happiness. But while the effort did leave me exhausted out of my mind, I was content and at times even insanely happy and ecstatic, which was usually guised in the more socially-approved feeling of content. 🙂
It was then that I resumed journal writing.
Since my relationship with religion seems to be a little afloat the past year or so, I had begun to rely and account myself for the consequences of my actions. Hence, being content was no different.
I didn’t see why I had to exclusively limit my writing to sad, miserable thoughts that not only left me less sunny but also helped me recollect my days and understand the running that I was doing a little better. While not a mandatory practice, it is a time that I spend exclusively with myself, calming myself down from the insanities of the world outside and within.
It’s a start to resume the writing I seem to have left behind and hopefully another opportunity for me to call myself a “writer” once again, before I am persuaded to into changing careers, lol.