I can’t remember the last time I wrote something for myself. Which is equal parts sad and also infuriating because writing has always been something that has brought me an unbridled amount of happiness. It’s always been a sort of cleansing. Yet recently writing has mainly been a source of frustration and angst and I’ve almost lost sight of why I started writing in the first place. I lost the vision of 6 year old Jada who used to hide behind bookshelves that had so much to say and so much to desire to create, who soon discovered that the one way to get it all out was by picking up paper and a pencil ( I wasn’t allowed to write in ink back in the day) and making a story of her own. Lately I’ve been writing for other peoples consumption. I’ve been so caught up in notions of perfectionism, in academia and writing for the sole purpose of having it scrutinized and evaluated for some sort of grade on a paper that I lost sight of writing when it was innocent when it wasn’t meant to impress or convince. When it was just about me and this desire to express this wealth of feeling and thoughts and ideas that I had bubbling in inside of me.When it was merely me and a nice playlist and a universe just waiting to be explored. I’ve grown to miss writing when I had no regard for punctuation,paragraphing and sentence structure. When i didn’t care if my sentences were too convoluted or if my language was too mellifluous my thoughts to otherworldly. I miss writing when it made me smile and I felt exalted when the last word was written opposed to this almost tiresome feeling that overwhelms me now when I finish an assignment as i know this moment precedes the period where I have to start all over again and scrutinize my work so someone else might think it worthy. I miss when the red lines of spellcheck and the ghastly spelling that filled my word documents made me smile when I remembered the feeling of having so much to say that my hands just couldn’t keep up with my brain. I hate that these red lines now are signs of my imperfections, inadequacies of expression that diminish my credibility as a writer. I fear that if I don’t start to write like that again. Like six year old Jada once did I’ll forget why I picked up a pen in the first place. I’ll forget why this means so much to me.
So here lies the beginning again, The reclamation of a long last passion, the renewal. Writing for myself.