I love to write. I always have. I love to create stories, poems, and birth them from my mind to the blankness of the paper. Writing was a way to express myself creatively as a child. I was hooked the first time I completed a story and shared it with my friends and saw them laugh and enjoy it. As an adult I have relied on writing as a way to release frustrations, express raw emotions, get through confusions, and celebrate the beauty by recording it forever so that I can go back and remember.
I love words and how they can really pack a punch and leave a lasting impression. I love how one word can evoke an array of emotions for some and then something completely different for others. I love how a word, or a string of words put together, can get a person to think and ponder and reflect.
I am a writer. No, I haven't published anything. No, I haven't shared my writerly musings with the world but I write and do it freely because I love to write. There was a long time that my writing was stunted, paralyzed, by an immense hole in my heart. The pain and grief of losing my daughter was so intense that it shrouded my creativity, clouded my mind to write and left me little to desire in life let alone create something. Nevertheless, in the back of mind I knew I was still a writer and that I should, and hopefully would, get back to it one day. I have and I am at home again.
But what of those that aren't writers? What about those that don't like to express themselves with words and stories? Can we make them be? Can we teach them to be? Can they be taught to produce great writings?
My husband is an avid reader, just as I am, but a writer he is not and, according to him, won't ever be. When we finally had a healthy baby to take home in our arms from the hospital I wrote her a letter. I've written her, and her younger sister, a letter every year on their birthday. I proposed the idea to my husband so that we could give our daughter's the letters on their 18th birthday. It was as if I had asked him to stop breathing.
"What would I say? I don't know how to do that? It isn't easy for me. I'm not good with words. That's more your thing." Every excuse he could think of he gave me and didn't do the writing. Not even for his daughters would he sit and write a short letter from the heart! He just isn't a writer. He's not a word connoisseur. He doesn't express himself in that form. But, but, he's married to someone that can teach him! I can share with him my own passion for writing! I can share with him how to show, not telling!
No, I don't think any of that matters. He can be married to Brontë herself and that still wouldn't inspire him to pick up the pen and let it rip. Because like the quote says, for most living a good life and writing are not synonymous. As for me, writing is life!