On getting started

I've always loved to write. I still find myself saying that whenever I "grow up" (whatever that means to a now-twenty-something person) I want to be a writer. My love for the written word started early. I read voraciously as a child, and started scribbling down short stories around the time I was in first grade. As an angsty pre-teen I journaled, which mainly consisted of dramatic complaining about all the juicy details of my insignificant life. Although the content was rather ridiculous, it was my escape-- my safe haven where I could air out all my thoughts and delicately weave them into prose. In my teen years I took to writing poetry, songs, short novels, movie scripts, and of course kept up a diary. Other than showing a close friend and entering a couple poetry competitions, my writings were a private endeavor. I wrote for no reason, with no intention of people ever reading it-- I wrote for me. In high school, I worked tirelessly as editor of my high school newspaper and took all of the advanced-placement English classes I could. But somewhere in the busy-ness of those high school years, something changed. I quit writing for me. I got the idea all stuck up in my little head that I couldn't write unless I had something important to say-- that I should only write for a purpose-- only if it would be worth something. And finding something important, it turns out, is a daunting task. So what did I do? I quit writing.

In college, I chose the more practical route to post-secondary success, abandoning by love for English and journalism and instead pursuing my love for the sciences with high hopes of going to medical school. After all, spending four years in college to become a struggling writer and eat ramen noodles every night until I eventually, maybe got a respectable job just wasn't rational. Spending the remainder of my teens and all my twenties in school to become a doctor and live in a fancy mansion sounded much more appealing to my naive 17-year-old self. That lasted about a year. After realising that I hate sick people and nearly faint at the sight of needles or blood, I made a new career plan and finished out the remainder of my college years studying in the fields of psychology and education (with a minor in science, just because I'd already wasted too much effort studying that shit).

Fast-forward five years, and I have a rather fulfilling life and career as a high school science teacher. But, deep down there's an itch that keeps intensifying, as if to say "something is missing."

On a long, quiet drive, I started listening to that itch. It was coming from my inner artist, my creative being that I've occupied the last seven years with fashion, photography, decorating, and the occasional painting or craft project. And it wanted to write. Nothing important, nothing for a purpose-- just to write.

"I want to write," I blurted out awkwardly in the silence of the car.

"Then, write."

So here I am. I can't promise it'll be interesting, or important, or even make sense-- but I'm going to write, for me... again.