I almost just told someone, “Yeah, I’m a writer.” Or, I planned to tell them that, if they asked. And then I realized, I can’t even call myself that. I don’t write. I write in my mind constantly, to the extent that it’s engrained in my internal monologue. But I don’t put it on paper, I don’t type it out, it gets lost. Gone are the days of staying up until four a.m. writing (shitty) poetry about all the boys who didn’t love me. Gone are the days of writing much of anything.

But then, this past month has been the craziest of my life. It’s been filled with so much change and upheaval and I feel like I’m finally back to basics, back to the person I am and have always been. You can only run from that for so long before you just have to embrace it, right? And part of that is the dream I’ve had my entire life – longer than anything else – of writing for real. Right now, I just have to start.

Although I tend to think-write in poetry, I don’t think that’s necessarily where I’m headed. I’m not literary, I can’t write about much more than broken hearts and tears and relationships, and the fact is, no “real” writer is going to do that. I don’t know, yet, how to say anything else. Someday, my as-yet-nonexistent novel will be published, but first I have to find the plot, the characters, the words. Someday, if I do anything worth writing about, my memoir will be published as well – but first, I have to have something to say.

This leaves me with only one option, and that is to actually blog for real. It’s hard. I’m known for being a little too honest, a little too personal. A couple months ago when something in my life was causing a lot of stress and frustration, I emoted all over Facebook and I can’t even count how many people came up to me in social settings and asked if I was okay, why I was so emo, what was wrong. It was embarassing, almost, but at the same time, hey, this is me, this is what you get. I don’t want to do that, to cause concern or make people think something is wrong with me. At the same time, it is what it is. Like one of my favorite songs says, somebody’s got to be interested in how I feel, just because I’m here and I’m real.

So in the past month, I have found myself alone, in a new place with so much room and space to spread out in and nothing to do with it. I’ve found myself feeling more inspired, more hopeful, than in awhile. I’ve grown up immensely, I’m trying to change the way I see things, I’m trying to accept the things I can accept and fix those I can’t.

I think it’s time to document this. I’m only going to be twenty-four and lost once. They say write what you know, and right now, that’s all I can do. I need a creative outlet, I need to fill some of this empty space, I need to stretch and grow.

And so. Hello again.


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