A blog. So what?

I’ve loved to write for as long as I can remember. Growing up I used to sit in my bedroom writing dramatic song lyrics and journaling about my day. Somedays I wrote a play by play of events, frantically capturing memories and moments I did not want to slip away. Other times, I tapped into something more. Something that made me light up inside. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was either that or I was busy annoying one of my older brothers by belting my heart out to Celine Delion. All I knew was that writing and music spoke to me. In retrospect, I think what I noticed is that writing felt like a deep release. It made me feel intelligent, a feeling that did not come easy for me. I felt like I could express myself better on paper than through conversation. I found, that through written word, I was able to make the thoughts and images in my mind come to life. So, I declared midway through high school that I would someday write a book. It’s not that I wanted to be a writer (or a musician). In fact, I wanted to be a sports broadcaster. It’s that I simply loved to write, to sing, and someday felt compelled to share this with the world in some capacity. I felt so strongly that I had a story to share, which looking back is kind of adorable of 15-year-old-me. A small town, scrappy little pipsqueak with braces, bushy eyebrows and a wise-ass sense of humor - a child of divorce and addiction - who hadn’t even hit puberty yet. Yup, she had a story to share, folks. At the time of the declaration I came up with my book title and left it at that. Fearful that no one would want to hear what I had to say.

Years later, in 2009, this book idea of mine, this whole writing thing, still sat unrested in my soul. I was living in San Diego after graduating from UNH, and thought “if I write a page a day for a year I’ll have written a 365 page book. That’s not so tough to tackle.” There I sat one morning, outside under an umbrella at a local coffee shop, writing page one.

Ten years later, I still only have one page written. Inspiring, right? It’s funny, Alex recently found a small notebook of mine that was tucked away in the basement. He quietly laid the notebook in front of me, having a feeling he uncovered what I assumed was lost. The only words written in this notebook, page one of my book. Words I hadn’t laid eyes on in ten years. I was hesitant to look, borderline mortified by what I could have written so long ago. To my own surprise, my words remain true. Page one, folks. Page one.

But that’s not the point. And this story isn’t about my so-called-book.

The point is, the story is, that here I am discovering that 15-year-old-me had more insight than I ever gave her credit for. She recognized a passion, an outlet that would allow her to live and speak her truth. Who woulda thunk?

Somewhere along the way I got lost. My relationship to writing changed. Life happened. I put up walls. I shut down. My tough guy act got strong. I pretended to know who I was and what I wanted. I only allowed myself to love and be loved from a distance. I barely let anyone in. I had a ‘tude like no other and deep rooted anger. So, I went about my life acting like I had my shit together for a long ass time. No one would know otherwise. Nothing could break me.

Until something broke me.

I’ve always been independent, most times to a fault, but I reluctantly decided the best way, the healthiest way, for me to heal would be to break down the armor I had so carefully built. To actually let people in. To re-establish my relationship with writing and begin sharing again in hopes people around me would see I was not okay. That they would see I needed help without me having to ask for it. Because God forbid I ask someone for help. I began to use my teaching and social media as platforms to expose my inner workings, desperate for myself and others to understand that no one is walking this road alone. I began to remember the feeling of deep release, as if a weight was being lifted from the depths of my soul when my thoughts hit paper. I began to feel alive again. I began to recall the feeling of brilliance. As if my thoughts and words were of importance, had meaning, even if to no one other than myself. That has to be worth something, right? Again, even if for no one other than myself.

I figured it was time to commit to writing on a more consistent basis. What I was doing for myself was stirring up ideas, pushing me to step out of my comfort zone and I longed for more. I began to wonder who else used writing in this way. I gauged interest and started Write Lab, a writing club, in hopes to foster an environment where creators can be inspired and hold one another accountable in their endeavors. I thought maybe this would push me to start the blog I bought the domain for three years ago. That maybe someday I’d write page two of my book. I was excited, lit up if you will. Then, just like that, I felt like I was in over my head. Write Lab ended as quickly as it started. I remembered how much time and energy this process requires. I questioned why someone like me should be leading a writing club. What the heck do I know about writing. My writing isn’t even that good. Fear won, again.

But wait, my dad always told me to never allow fear to stop me from doing something or I’ll end up missing out on something beautiful. So, I write. Sometimes the words come to me and linger within me for days. As if they are channeled through me from somewhere else, from someone else and will not leave until written. Somedays the words are my own. Somedays I am light and goofy. Somedays shit gets real. Somedays I think, similarly as to how I feel writing this right now, “is there really a point to all this?” Yet, here I am. Finally writing that blog. In the process of resurrecting the Write Lab. Scared as heck to start page two of that “book”, but I’ll get there. The butterflies are out-of-control before I click the ol’ publish button. I question myself, A LOT. Who cares what I have to say? I feel so exposed, giving others access into my mind in this way.

I’m not kidding, it literally takes me hours to write. Hours. But I swear time stands still. I write pencil to paper. With candles lit and chill music playing in the background. I cross stuff out. I erase. I reroute the writing with arrows and small notes on the side of the page. I step away. I come back. I reread then change a bunch of shit. I start typing. The writing evolves more. I read it to Alex (although not this time, as he is off the grid exploring Patagonia #help). More edits. I think I’m done. Eh, this needs work. Ah, alas it’s complete. I feel free. I feel valuable. I feel so empowered when I create something in it’s entirety. It’s a form of reflection. I’m able to connect the dots in the most unique way. Like I’m only able to see the big picture when I begin to place the words in front of me. Those ah-ha kind of moments reveal themselves. It’s a form of therapy. A non-negotiable. Writing is a part of what I call ‘my maintenance plan’. If I step away from writing I’m dodging something, and at this point in my life I’ve realized there is no growth in running.

I spend more on a writing project than anything. Because I’m passionate about it. Because I speak from a place of truth. Because once my words are shared I don’t want to wish that I could take them back. The time poured into this is not about crafting the perfect story, I simply choose my words with care. No offense, but I don’t write for you. I write for me. Yet, I do, of course, hope someone gets a little something from following along.

Just last week Alex gifted me with a book called Bird by Bird - Some Instructions on Writing and Life to keep me inspired now that I’ve embarked on this whole blogging journey. This man of mine, I tell ya. He gets me. I’ve only read the introduction and a few pages into the first chapter thus far, but the following words stopped me in my tracks, “The very first thing I tell my new students on the first day of a workshop is that good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are.”

My truth. In writing. Maybe my writing isn’t so bad? And for Christ Sake, I even have the words remember who you are in my dad’s handwriting tattooed on my left forearm. Maybe I am, after-all, onto something.

That something that I’ve blessedly been able to tap back into through the journey of grief and self-discovery. That something that lights me up from the inside out. That something that has brought me to living and sharing my truth. That something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on so many years ago. It feels like a gift from 15-year-old-me. A gift I cherish wholeheartedly.

Until next time, my friends.