Sometimes I write when I have nothing else to do. It’s a nice hobby, a mental exercise, an emotional cleanse. Sometimes I write when I’m not sure what else to do to ease my mind or to express my emotions. But sometimes I write when I have a point, and today the point is in the writing itself.
I had always loved writing when I was young, from the moment I learned to hold the pencil, I was writing stories about crazy princesses in towers, adventures to faraway lands, and my favorite celebs (Mary Kate and Ashley, of course). In second grade, I distinctly remember missing out on recess because I begged to stay at my desk and write instead. I wrote a little essay about California, a state I couldn’t wait to visit, and I went up on the Wall of Fame in our classroom, and even received a little golden star. I was satisfied, didn’t care that I had missed out on playtime with my friends, and all was well in the world of Kate.
At such a young age, I knew the power that writing held for me. It was a door to worlds I didn’t understand or had never visited. If I dreamt it, I could write it, and in that way, writing was a way to achieve my dreams. The precision required to explain something to others who may not understand disciplined me in the earliest stages of my academic career, and prepared me for a world in which I constantly have to rely on my persuasive abilities.
I have always had crazy ideas, incomprehensible to those around me, but through writing, I learned to channel my imagination into concrete situations with real-world applications. I learned the art of practicality, while also learning to express myself and to validate my own ideas, opinions, and views regarding the world around me.
Through writing, I gained an appreciation for my mind, and all that it holds, something that has carried me through every stage of my life. There is nothing more liberating than realizing the power of your words and nothing more freeing than having the confidence to speak them.
As my world got bigger, things became increasingly complicated, as things usually do with age. Recess faded into a distant memory, and college was approaching. Shortly thereafter, college had begun, I had transitioned into a new life, but as the daily facets of my life became more and more serious – taking classes that will eventually culminate in a career, spending time with people who might become my future – so did my thoughts. With no other place to express the emotions I was feeling, I turned back to the only form of artistic enthusiasm I had ever possessed; and I found the Rock.
Writing for me has always been enjoyable, though attending a liberal arts university like BC forces you to write more than you would have ever desired. Beyond academia, I turn to writing nearly every day to consolidate my opinions, cope with stress, and understand myself. Often the act of writing makes more sense to me than the subject about which I am writing, though that has never stopped me before. Somehow, the pursuit of explaining myself to an audience through literary means has been a constant in my life, though my publishing consistency has not been as stable.
Writing is about more than forced torture, it is a means by which the mind makes itself accessible to those not usually privy to its inner workings. Through writing I have come to understand myself in ways I never have before, come to understand subjects that I never realized I cared about, and come to understand friends in new and profound ways, upon reading their works as well.
Sometimes, though, even the greatest writers come across a bump in the road of their writing careers, and simply cannot produce a solid idea, and hold onto it long enough to explain it. Just like anything worth doing, writing is worth keeping up with, if only discussing ideas and topics as simple as the latest movie, or your favorite restaurant. Writing about anything is an amazing escape, into a world where whatever is happening around you doesn’t affect what is happening on the page in front of you.
There is nothing more fresh than a blank page, nothing as enticing as a clean slate on which to paint a picture of whatever you wish. For me, there is nothing as soothing as having an hour of solidarity, a pen, and a blank page sitting in front of me, with no rules, no right and wrong, and no one telling me what to do.
Life is a mess of beautiful chaos, therefore writing is a worthwhile habit to get into, an art that nearly anyone can adapt to their life, their skillset, and their interests. For me, writing has been a constant in some of my darkest moments, a therapist any time of day, and a constant reminder of my worth to myself, and to those around me.
If you care about something, write. If something bothers you, oppresses you, inspires you, or confuses you, write. When all else fails, write. I promise you, you’ll be surprised at the power of your own mind to provide clarity unto itself.
So if you don’t know what to write about, where to start, or if you’ll produce anything worth reading, go for it anyway. You never know what opportunities lay behind a door you’ve never had the courage to open.
And in the wise words of Natasha Bedingfield, “the rest is still unwritten.”
Photo One . Photo Two Courtesy of Author