Write, for catharsis.

This was told to me in an effort by the founder of my school to enable us to become thoughtful, reflective young adults. Each time I tried writing though, I’d end up with petty reminiscences of an ordinary day, or the typical longings of that time in my life. I didn’t know then what catharsis meant, neither did I have a need for it. I wrote diary entries on many books. A while later, mortified, I would find my thoughts inadequate and find ways to destroy the book. I did this at least three times that I can remember, finally stopping altogether.

Now I am in my later 20’s, I have a husband (will refer to him as the H), I am a happy woman except when I am not. The written word has enticed me for decades now, to seduce me into pouring all of myself into black scribbles on white. Here you will find a glimpse into my life, things I think, marvel, rage about. You will probably find it self-centred, in fact I am almost certain you will. Writing is a selfish act. If you know how to read, you will find that writing reveals more about the writer than what she is writing about.

Ray Bradbury, him of the simplest, clearest writing, says “Just write. Don’t think. Write” He says a lot many other things, but this is the hardest for me. I am not used to writing for consumption, not that there is a riot of people clamouring to consume this, but a girl can dream, you know?

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