So this is the first blog entry in a while. A lot of people have stopped reading. That’s okay, and today I want to write something that not a lot of people, if any, will want to read. This is sort of like a diary entry, for myself, and if anyone else relates, that’d be amazing. Right now, I want to remember why I write. Not just the reason I give curious people when asked. But why I started, why I am, and why I will always. And it’s starting to sound poetic already. But hey, I am a writer. Typing this all down is like a reminder to my future self.

I started writing because I started reading. There’s no other reason really. I read books and thought, ‘Wow, where’s the rest of it?’ So I wrote my own version. If I look back on any of those now, it’s just constant cringing at a little girl’s haphazard daydreams. I kept reading, though. I never went long without a book in my hand. Writing now is like I can’t stop the words spilling out. My books are covered in poems and songs and sentences from a book I’ll never write. It’s like if you give me a pen, I will end up covering the page in random, meaningless words that mean a whole lot to me. Writing now is pouring out feelings that don’t know how else to come out.

And oh, I can’t imagine writing in the future. I can’t see how my writing will change. The funny thing is, I can see myself writing. There’s no way, even if I die without anybody ever knowing my name, there’s no way I’ll ever drop the pen or the book. Writing is an escape, and I can’t imagine anything ever replacing it. Looks like I just fully went into a rant about writing. Whoops. I now probably sound boring or like a nerd. But I truly hope one day I’ll look back on this and smile. This means a lot to me, after all.

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