I taught myself to read when I was four. Even before that, though, I was enamored with writing. My mom likes to tell the story of how I would ‘read’ the newspaper when I was two–while holding it upside down. I knew how to read by the time I went to school, and I was in a special reading class with one other kid in the first grade. We both read several levels higher than the other kids, so we were pulled out and sat down in a room on our own. The details are cloudy, but I seem to remember that we were allowed to read pretty much whatever we wanted. So, less a class and more an independent study.
I read the Little House on the Prairie series, which was one of my favorites. Laura Ingalls Wilder. I read each book several times and was enamored by her life on in the wild. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that she was an unreliable narrator (every story she told was how great she was and how much more clever she was than everyone else). I cannot blame her because why wouldn’t you center yourself in books you’re writing about your life?
I did some Googling on her when I got older, and it was grim. She became a Republican, decrying social safety nets, even though her youngest sister was on welfare. That really put a damper on my enjoyment of the books, I’ll tell you that much.
I also decided to read the dictionary when I was in the third or fourth grade. I got bored around I, but that didn’t stop me from calling my bullies ‘unintellectual imbeciles’. Hey, cut me some slack; they were really mean. Then, in ix grade I decided to read the longest book I could find. That would be War and Peace by Leon Tolstoy. I got halfway through it before giving up when I couldn’t keep the names straight. Everyone had a half-dozen nicknames, and I had no clue what was going on. I also read The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and hated it. Why did Hester Prynne get all the crap for sleeping with John Proctor? And why is she so adamant about protecting him? And, yes, I know that’s part of the purpose of the book. Didn’t stop me from hating it.
I started writing creatively when I was seven. I don’t remember any of it, but I’m sure it was brilliant. I wrote a murder mystery in fourth or fifth grade, complete with very shitty illustrations. Look, drawing is not my forte. I can’t be expected to be good at everything. But the story itself was solid and indicative of my mentality–revenge is best served.
I wrote poetry for a long time, but then I just got tired of it. Well, not exactly. No one liked it, and I decided to move to fiction. I found myself in my writing, and now, I can’t imagine not doing it. I’ve only had writer’s block once in my life, but it was the scariest thing. I was writing prolifically and then one day, nothing.
Here’s the thing. I always have stories running in my head. I can write at the drop of a hat. I did NaNoWriMo on a lark one year, and it was no problem. I added to the word count afterwards, but it never was a challenge. So, now, I just do NaNoRebel instead and make up my own goals. One year it was to edit a novel. Another it was to write a screenplay. I’m not sure what I’m going to do this year. It’ll probably have something to do with my memoir.
All of this is elaborate background just to say that I write. A lot. I write between 3,000 and 4,000 words a day. I wear out keyboards in a blink of an eye. The keyboard on my laptop was done in a month after getting it. That’s crazy! It’s partly because I write so much and partly because I type hard, but it’s mostly because the keyboards on laptops are shit.
I read advice columns. One thing they like to suggest is journaling. Have some complicated feelings? Journal about them. Have financial issues? Write them down. Relationship troubles? Open a new document and type away. You would think that because I’m a writer, I would be all over it.
I am not. I don’t mind if other people want to do it for themselves, but any time I read about it as a suggestion for a problem, my brain shouts, “NO!” More to the point, it’s a petulant, “I don’t want to and you can’t make me!” Which is childish, I admit, but it’s what my brain thinks. I write all the time and so many words as it is. I do not need to be required to write even more. In addition, I already write out my thoughts and feelings in my posts, so I don’t need to do more.
Also, unlike most people, apparently, I am perfectly capable of teasing out my feelings just by thinking about them. I know why I do things, even if I don’t change that behavior after figuring it out. I am pretty comfortable with my flaws–at least knowing what they are. Jung talks about the shadow and how people have a hard time accepting that they have one.
I am the opposite. I have been fully comfortable with my shadow for most of my life (including Shadow, my cat!). I can rattle off my negatives at a lightning pace, and then take a deep breath before stringing off ten more. I’ve had more difficulty with my positive side, if I’m to be honest. I didn’t like to acknowledge my assets because it felt like bragging.
That has changed since my hospital stay. Now, I can more openly talk about what I like about myself, including things that I used to consider negatives. My ass, for example. I never had one until I studied Taiji for several years. Now, I have one with definition, even if it’s not as big as I’d like it to be. I’m positively obnoxious about my body positivity, but I have earned it. After decades of hating my body, I’m pleased that I’ve embraced it now. Booty shorts for days, yo! I’m all about showing off that junk in my trunk.
I’m all about loving myself these days, and that includes saying no to journaling. It does not spark joy, so it’s kicked out. I’ll write when I want and for reasons other than that just for the love of it.