It’s hard to believe, but it’s almost three already. I feel like I’ve been at this all morning, yet it’s oddly refreshing, theraputic, and quite addicting. Just yesterday I was telling a friend about how I finally updated what was originally supposed to be the spanish version of this blog (actually, this was supposed to be bilingual and that parallel site resulted out of knowing two in one probably wouldn’t work) but how I had no desire to write an update in my native language. Spanish can be more fun, there’s a bit of a mask and I don’t feel quite as pressured to be deep. I wrote about how in Nicaragua I often felt like I should, but didn’t have much to share since every week was more or less the same; since I had free time, much like now, and learning the guitar, or reading through Judges, or laughing on the porch wouldn’t have been enough to keep people’s interest. I wrote about how similar a quiet afternoon can feel in various locations and acknowledged that there’s nothing wrong with spending that time to pursue God-given passions. So I’ve got at least a good few more hours to dig a bit deeper and seeing where this path leads, especially once this volume ends.
Name three times when it came to you clearly that you wanted to write a memoir. Go.
Maybe not a memoir, but as for writing itself, that’s easy. Fourth grade, when I tried writing my own, or maybe 5th, when I put ‘teacher’ on the career questionare but wished that ‘author’ would be plausible. Maybe in middle school, during Power of the Pen tournaments, when I realized as much as I wanted one, I really didn’t have a knack for story telling. Maybe it’s there that I realized if I was ever to write, really write, not just scribble for the sake of scribbling, but write to have something to be read, it’d have to be a memoir. I realized I wanted to write in high school, when my 10th grade honors teacher asked for letters for something. I don’t remember for what we were petitioning, but I know that we proof read each other’s papers and the complements boosted my self-esteem long enough for me to entertain the thought once again. I realized I wanted to, want to, write when thinking about what I could possibly do as a career that would allow me to travel and volunteer throughout the world, yet still not live off of support. A small pang pops up each time I think of how I’ve tried to and wanted to start but never could. Each time I think that I’m not a story teller or don’t have a story to tell. Each time I tell myself it’s not a reliable or realistic option and I bury a child-like dream once again, but we are called to be child-like so who knows. It could happen.