I started writing when I was twelve. I started blogging when I was sixteen. After I got my hands on my mothers old desktop computer, this really slow, really loud beast of a machine with a keyboard, I fell in love. My mothers new computer was a dream, but having my own, in my own room, was its own dream.
No more writing on binder paper, no more numbering my pages. I could get more writing done in less time, I wasn’t bound by the speed of my handwriting, or the amount of paper I could get my hands on. I wrote short stories that sat on my desktop, that ended up tucked away in a folder, neglected. That bothered me, my stories were collecting dust, forgotten in that dark folder, and that wasn’t why I had written them.
I was hesitant to share my writing, for a few reasons. What if people really liked what I wrote, what if they absolutely loved my short stories and tried to steal them? What if someone was just as in love with these small worlds with short blurbs on different scenarios that they decided to copy and paste, and for some terrible reason they got noticed and published based on or with my writing? How terrified I was at the loss of any success because everyone loved what I did enough to steal it, but that’s silly, its ridiculous, nothing I write is that good. In fact, I’m sure only a few people might like it at all, might say something nice as a formality but roll their eyes after the fact. Sure, it makes sense, I don’t know what I’m doing so people will criticize my writing, criticize me. Oh god, I bet they’ll tear apart every flaw they can fathom!
And that settled it, I would post a blog! Privately. I would post a blog, that required permission to view, that required a password, because although my deep seeded urge to write and have an outlet to share my writing was so immense that it had to happen, I still wouldn’t let anyone see it. Those fears, however, still kept those stories hidden, on a long forgotten website no one could view, much like the folder they were previously in. One day it came to my attention that the long forgotten blog was going to be shutting down, and that is when I began to write again, to write more, but not on a blog. Feverishly, instead, in word documents.
These word bursts would happen periodically. I wrote, and wrote, and the sun would come up, and I would get little to no sleep. Cigarettes and coffee back to back, and words upon words, with no where to go, but into their own file, in their own folder, on my desktop, just as before. It was a manic mess of making stories and characters, scenarios and worlds. When I was done, I would journal, I would write personal paragraphs of how my stories were coming along, and how I felt about them, what I would do in the day, and which book I would read next.
This went on, and on, unending for years. Today, I am an English Major, with a book club, apart of the bookstagram community, who gets a brave bug to submit something to The Ghastling now and then, but that folder… it still exists. On my hard drive, tucked away, are all of those books and stories, finished and unfinished, years and years of writing accumulated, gathering metaphorical dust as they sit. Here’s the thing, however, while I may not be able to share those just yet, or ever, I do NEED to share something. I need to write, I need an open, public outlet for some type of creative writing. So here, here is where I have found a comfort in complementing books that I have read with words to counter those tales in reviews, here I can discuss favorites among books, and comforts. Here, I can share with you my words. Here, I can be a writer, a reader, a reviewer, a photographer.
I started blogging, to stretch out my arms after typing. To let loose the lines of words bunched up in their save file. I started blogging because writing is like a favorite food. When those words hit your tongue, you find satisfaction, and in having had been the maker of that meal, you feel delight. Maybe, and almost certainly, one day, I will post more of my writing, as to write can not be wrong.