A friend sent me that quote after a conversation we had pertaining to creativity and writing. I hesitate to proclaim anyone without creativity, regardless of their protestations. Everyone has a creative touch, whether it be artistic, musical, dramatic, literary, epistolary, physical, athletic, or oratorical.
I tend to write about everything. In way or another, I write it out. I do not always like what I write and I surely do not share it all publicly (the stack of journals speaks to that), but I still write it. My writing is a space of vulnerability for me. My soul flows openly through written and typed words. I’m not a bad speaker, not at all really, but I feel freer when I write. Freer with my feelings, freer with my opinions, freer with my words, and freer with my creativity. Do I still doubt my courage? Yes, sometimes. I fear that my words, however personal and well-intentioned they may be, will cause offense and backlash and whatever else. Do I still write? Yes. Being bold in my art and craft has proven good for my soul, no matter how scary it might be. Even when someone has disagreed with my writings or postings, I have managed to take a moment, express myself clearly, and I am then the better for having had the experience.
Writing about everything is not always so simply done as said. The English language is sometimes woefully bereft of the definite-rich vocabulary I need to accurately (I feel) express myself. But I still try, albeit a bit clumsily, to do so. Sometimes I have to make decisions about what to write about or to let sleep.
The other day, I opened my journal and saw where I had begun to write about an incident the night before and I had to make a decision: finish recording that incident, which honestly had a negative effect on my mood and soul when it had occurred and immediately afterward, or move on and let my writing flow through that day, to live in the now of that moment. I chose the latter for two reasons: One, I had already fleshed out my feelings on that incident with a trusted friend a few days beforehand so, really, I had written out that experience. And two, I wanted to enjoy my day out, my precious little time to myself when I could just let my mind wander wherever it dared to roam without being snapped back on the end of the leash that is often motherhood and adulting.
My lifespace is full of paper (literal and metaphorical), of writings, letters, stories, academic observations, literary reviews, and cards – encapsulated in Skype and Gchat conversations, emails, text messages, blog posts, journals, notepads, marginal annotations, idea books, and letters to the future. I write it all. I always have. And you can’t make me stop, which is a really good thing.