My heart is a lonely wanderer.

As I wrote my ‘About Me’ section the other day, something occurred to me: I have no idea when or why or how I started to love writing.

This realization seemed rather disorienting, considering the fact that I just decided to call myself a writer, like, yesterday.  If I’m going to be so bold as to give myself that kind of title, with all the clout and expectations and hardship that goes along with it, I should be able to pinpoint the moment. You know the moment. The moment you sat down with a blank notebook and a new pen and said “this is it. This is the only thing I can see myself doing for the rest of my life.”

The thing is, I never really had that moment. Yes, words have been a part of my life since before I am biologically able to remember – but that doesn’t really make me any different from the other billions of human beings on this planet; it also doesn’t give me any information as to where this dream originated.

So I started thinking. I flipped through the impressive quantity of journals I’ve amassed over the years, aimlessly wandered through my old blogs and just took some time with my own thoughts.  Somewhere between the infinite pages of melodramatic teenage angst and overly sentimental gratitude lists, I found my answer: writing is more than just a dream or an occupation or a lifestyle. Writing is now, and always has been, my home.

The concept of ‘home’ is another one of those ideas that has recently weighed heavily on my weary heart.  The truth is, I’ve never felt settled in one place. I’ve lived a rather nomadic lifestyle since the day I turned 18, and even though I’ve somehow found myself back ‘home’ with my parents for a short while, I still can’t help the fact that the only place I feel truly at home is buried deep inside my words. Words gave me a voice when I was perpetually outspoken by my two elder siblings. Words gave me companionship when I was thousands of miles away from anything I ever knew.  Words gave my heart a place to call home when I had nowhere to go.

So maybe I don’t have that one shining moment, that one good story about how I came to be a writer..but what I do have is something so powerful, so meaningful, so entirely engrained in who I am and how I function as a particle in this universe that I wouldn’t change it for anything.

-A

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2 Comments

  1. Hello, Writer! I’m a little envious, because I’m not to the “I’m a writer” stage in life yet. Probably never will be, which is partially why sometimes when I start posts I get seriously nervous that I won’t be able to articulate what I’m trying to say!

    ..Hmm.. So I guess you don’t have to be a writer to have a blog. But yours was very enjoyable to read! :) Glad I found your blog tonight.

    Reply
    • Ah, I’m not sure those nerves ever go away! I’m finding that it’s much more difficult to call myself ‘a writer’ than I anticipated. It just seems so final, doesn’t it? So bold, even. Then again the true beauty of writing is that it’s so accessible to us all – anyone and everyone can be a writer…and I suppose we’re always in our writing stage, aren’t we?

      That was me responding to you in (too many) questions. What I really meant to say was thank you! Thank you for reading and taking the time to comment and connect. Also, thank you for sharing such beautiful pictures on your own blog! I’ll most certainly be frequenting for inspiration :)

      A

      Reply

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