the view from my kitchen window
I used to write all. the. time. I've been keeping a journal since I was in fourth grade. I still have them all, sitting in a box in the guest room. Every now and then I'll crack one open and read. I have already forgotten so much. I was dramatic about some things and had moments of insight. Both surprise me a little as I look back.
In elementary school I would write stories. I remember writing a story about a girl who fell through some ice while ice skating when I was in fourth grade. I wrote a story about the Titanic when I was in fifth. I would write about mystery and love and travel and girl power.
In college, I was naturally writing a lot. With majors in history and psychology there really is no escaping it. I learned how to structure my papers more efficiently. Write a one-sentence thesis. Defend, explain, defend again. I could lengthen when needed, cut when necessary.
Since college I really haven't written much. I hadn't thought much about it. After all I've been busy. Busy with a baby. Busy with two cross-country moves. Busy learning. Busy taking care of life.
Lately though, I've missed it. Really missed it. I have fleeting thoughts that I want to expand on, ponder and remember. I think to myself "Oh, I'll write that down later." And then the thought leaves.
I've been taking time to write more lately. It really is rather theraputic for me. I've always been better at writing than talking.
This is all to say, that there might be a few more words around here. Instead of rushing through my posts, like I usually do, I'm going to try to slow down. Think. Say what I want in both word and image.