The Mind is a Terrible Thing…

I have this thing with writing. It’s a love/hate thing. It’s a good/bad thing. It’s that thing where you sometimes would rather stick the pen in your eye then stick it to paper. It’s also that thing that puts the blood back in your body after you’ve already lost so much. It flows through the tubes and through your veins. It’s the restarting of your heart.

I have this thing with writing. It’s those dreams that come to you in the dead of night, jerking you awake, only to slip silently away. It’s the moment in the early morning where the words are all there is. Where they’re all you want them to be.

In my mind, every small popcorn kernel is deafening. Popping up when I want them and popping up when I don’t. Exploding when the lights are off and when the shower is running.

When I’m not writing I’m reminded of the things I want to forget and the things I don’t want to hear. And when I am writing, I’m reminded that the mind is a terrible thing…to waste.



Needed To Be Written

I’ve told myself that I can be one of those writers that writes everyday. That I should write everyday. That I’m actually capable of writing everyday. But as my writing lulls increase in size and space within the back of my mind, I find that I can’t actually write everyday. Somedays nothing, at all, comes to me. It’s all a blank dark shadow. I try to imagine myself writing something eloquent and moving but nothing comes to mind. Nothing comes or goes…anywhere.

I’ve grown accustom to the nothingness. It’s no longer a bad thing that overshadows me. Writing to me isn’t just about writing. It’s about writing something that I will be proud of. Something that I will appreciate and admire and respect. After all, everything I write has my name on it.

When I look at my blog and see that days or maybe even weeks have gone by without a new post, I used to think that I wasn’t being the writer that I could be. That I wasn’t utilizing each and every outlet I had for writing. That I wasn’t doing what I thought I was supposed to be doing.

tumblr_mnnil3X31Q1s9tsjuo1_500But I can’t write if I feel like I have to do it. I don’t want to have to write. When I write, it’s because I have something to say, or even not say. When I have visions in my mind and words running through my head. I know the limits to my writing and I know when something I write isn’t up to my standards of “quality” writing. And on those days, or writing those posts, that “Publish” button will never get pushed. It’s not worth it and it’s not my best effort.

Although this post isn’t about anything particularly groundbreaking and it might not be able to insight some kind of reaction, it’s still something that I needed. It’s something that needed to be written.

Write to write. Write because you need to write. Write to settle the rage within you. Write with an internal purpose. Write about someone or something, that means so much to you, that you don’t care what others think

Why I Write

In today’s challenge, you’ll reflect on your origin story and tell us how and why you became a writer.

When my mom was in College she spent a year abroad in Spain. During her year there not only did she become fluent in the Spanish language but she brought a little bit of Spain back home with her. To this day, she has always felt a connection to that beautiful country and has subsequently shared it with her children.

One of the books that my mom would read to me when I was little was The Story of Ferdinand the Bull.previewFerdinand by Munro Leaf. The story was about a bull named Ferdinand who wasn’t like other bulls. Instead of wanting to be a fighter of Matadors, Ferdinand would rather sit in the meadow and smell the flowers. When I was young I simply saw the story as a story. I never really thought about what it meant until now. Thinking back on it, I’ve realized that Ferdinand embodies something that everyone wants. Individuality. Everyone wants to be something special but they want to do so on their own terms. When we’re young we think that conformity is the only way to survive being surrounded by our peers. But as we get older, we realize that the only way to do so is to be ourselves. Be our best selves each and every day. And our best selves are very different from everyone else. Ferdinand didn’t let the pressure of society impose on him something he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be a fighter. He wanted to be a lover. A lover of the flowers in the meadow.

Reading these books when I was young took me to a place that I didn’t know existed. They showed me just how important imagination is and just how important individuality is. Individuality might be hard to achieve at times but imagination is endless. That’s why I write. I write because I want to give a voice to all those things in my head. The things that have a hard time being heard or expressing themselves. The things that might not make sense to others but are perfectly ingenious to me. I write because words have given me so much and I want to be able to give something back. Books are a huge part of my life and I want to contribute to the limitless change that comes from the written word.

I write because my imagination is endless and I have no desire to contain it.


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