though i appreciate the dance of my fingers over a keyboard and the clicking song they create, there’s just something about picking up a pen and putting it to actual paper that is irreplaceable. i’d somewhat lost my appreciation for the feeling due to a combination of writer’s block and computer dependency, until one of my close friends gave me a beautiful leather bound journal for christmas. the first time i wrote in it, i had to resist the small voice in my head that said my thoughts would flow easier on the computer, and after a couple forced paragraphs, i found myself a few pages into a beautifully flowing journal entry.
the days and weeks following were full of writing; it was as if my journal, with its new smell and obnoxiously strong binding, was the simple cure for a bout of writer’s block that seemed indefinite. ever accustomed to the culture of social networking and social media, i sometimes found myself thinking at the end of a particularly productive journal: “where should i post this?” i’d consider ways to clean up the writing, make it more appealing for an audience. but not everything is meant to be posted. not every work that springs from your mind is meant to be shared with the masses; sometimes it is for you and only you. there is a beauty and freedom in secrecy that is overwhelmingly undervalued.
i’d forgotten that.
mostly because i’d immersed myself completely in a culture that glorifies the production of content for other people. i could tweet until my thumbs fell off, mostly for the entertainment of others, but would remain stuck on a piece that was being written for personal reasons. it was as if i didn’t know how to write for myself; even if i was just writing for fun, i’d find anxiety over how my work would be perceived by this group or that person getting in the way of me writing more than just a couple paragraphs. which is shitty. and stupid.
so today, i sipped a peppermint mocha frap under the bright sun, eradicating the calorie burn of the workout i’d just completed, and i wrote in my journal, with a blue pen. for myself. words–tinted brown by the barrier of my sunglasses–flowed about life and lessons and progress, and i never worried once about what someone would think. because i was writing for me, among pages that will remain unseen (fingers crossed, because folks are nosy) by anyone else. creating content that is solely for my personal benefit has given me the confidence and desire to start writing stories again, in a voice and style that is true to self and unwavering in the face of [potential] public opinion.