Wednesday, March 1st, 2017
3:41 a.m. storming outside
So as I sit here typing this, I am doing the only thing I possibly know how to do- the only thing I am good at, and that is writing when my heart wills nothing else. Sleepless, tossing, turning. The only light in this dark room is coming from the screen on which I type, and the only sound coming from the rain beckoning from outside my window, relentlessly.
Here’s the thing keeping me awake. I am terrified to pursue writing in my life.
Because, (and I know you can’t start a sentence with “because” but who cares, its almost four in the morning), I think I’m scared to fail at what I love best. Journalism is founded on truth, and I have to be honest with myself, to myself. I mean, if I can’t be honest with only me, then I shouldn’t even be trying this. So here.
From the time I was little- and I’m talking 2nd grade little- I wrote stories. I would staple together handmade books and pretend I was a teacher, reading them to my class. Growing up, my father had my sister and I write one short story a week, and we kept them in folders in the downstairs desk drawer. I loved that.
I always said I was going to be an author, a writer.
Then, by the time I reached high school, that’s when it struck me that this was not what I wanted to do- it was something of my destiny. The words that I scrawled into journal after journal, each year as I grew into a young adult, were woven into my veins and writing was in my bloodstream. It became my safe-place, my escape, my drug. When I was hurt, or heartbroken, or tremendously elated, I would take the things inside my head and orchestrate them onto paper, like my thoughts were music notes and I was the composer.
Photography is another evidence of truth. through it, I can travel back in time, and I take photos to remember the way I felt in that moment.
When I was in 1st grade, I got my first camera. It was a strawberry shortcake, pink little camera, a disposable, with no screen. I had the time of my life taking blurry, chaotic photos with it.
When I was in 4th grade, I got my first digital camera. It was a pink Polaroid that I took everywhere with me. I documented my elementary and middle school life and made videos on YouTube to remember the way life was back then.
When I was 16, I got my first professional camera. This changed my life, because it gave me a portal to another planet. When I am sad, I leave the house with only it, myself, and a watch. I leave the neighborhood, leave people and pain behind and explore. I see beauty in the small things, like abandoned silos and small spider webs. The other day, I found a clover patch that smelt of fresh earth and I sat there for maybe an hour, loving up the seemingly millions of them. They reminded me of hope and my old house in the springtime, and so I took photos of them.
I suppose this is my rambling of why I do what I do. I suppose this is my subconscious mind speaking to me, telling me that i must keep going despite the doubt. i must keep blooming.