Identifying myself as a writer is a newer part of who I am. In reality, I’ve actually been a writer all along:
I write the fronts and back of cards.
I send long paragraphs to friends in texts.
I keep a gratitude journal to write in each morning.
I take notes on what I learn from books and podcasts.
I write down random interesting ideas I have on sticky notes. Everywhere.
I record stories when I travel to remember.
Writing is the compression of ideas into words communicated as art on a page. Like turning a maple tree into a sap, it simply drizzles out of a Canadian Syrup bottle.
The process of writing mirrors that of life. It is messy. It doesn’t go as planned in the outline. It comes together as life goes by. It’s a beautiful process of leaving a piece of who I am on the page.
Once I have published, it creates space to think about something novel and exciting. It feels cathartic. No extrinsic reward is necessary. Once the art is finished, knowing I tried my best is enough.
It represents my hope for others to fall in love with the same ideas I have shared.
The cure for boredom is curiosity. Ideas give us that cure. Justice is made when they are written and shared.
I don’t write because I have the answers. I write so I can get the answers.