This is probably the third or fourth blog post I’ve started writing in the past year.
I’ve had that tingly, back-of-your-throat, gotta-get-back-to-personal-writing feeling several times over the past few months, and every time I click on that little “Add Post” button and every time that I begin to type in that slightly bigger “Edit Post” screen, it usually ends with me clicking the even smaller “Save” button and then disappearing off of the face of my site until the next time inspiration almost strikes.
Another one of these moments happened today. I’ve had a hard time adjusting to being totally remote again (it’s a whole lot of alone time, some phone calls and mostly me watching Jane the Virgin on the couch by three PM) and so I sat down to write about it, but just like always, I also stopped writing about it, before I had really said what I wanted to say, even just to myself.
My life used to be conceptualized in terms of writing, meaning that I used to make sense of my life and its events by writing about them, especially and usually when something ~unsettling and boy-related happened. Have I stopped writing for myself and for fun because I’m comfy and cozy in love and therefore can no longer fictionalize my life with the enticing potential of a burgeoning love story?
Or maybe it’s that I’ve stopped writing for me/for fun because a few years ago, when I was a senior in college, I made a decision. I’ve always had this dual interest between writing and illustration, and it came to a point where I needed to focus on one or the other, or I would drive myself crazy with the guilt of not living up to my own expectations about being a writer and/or an illustrator. So, I called myself an artist and told myself for a few years that I would focus on growing myself as an illustrator.
This singular focus has brought with it immeasurable growth and success over the past few years. To think that just a few years ago, I wasn’t even calling myself an artist, and now I’ve completed - and was compensated for! - a 48’ x 18’ mural on a city street in Chicago!
I’ve still written. That’s how I “make my money,” actually. By (most of the) day, I’m a freelance content writer, editor and manager for several clients. But recently…maybe it’s because I’ve been watching a lot of Jane the Virgin, a story (among many other things) about a woman who realizes her dreams of being a published author, but I want to write for myself again!
In addition to being an illustrator, I want to be known as a writer, and I want to share my thoughts with others, even if it’s only my mom and my fiance reading them (hey, guys :)). So, I guess this initial post - the first since my study abroad blog in 2014 - is a way to break the not writing spell; to ask God to be with me in this, just as He’s been with me in my illustration efforts; and to tell myself that I can do it, that just like drawing, all writing takes is that first little shout of belief, echoing right in my chest, that affirms:
I’m a writer. Let’s get typing.