I love writing.
There was a time when that statement was definitely not true for me. In high school, I did well in my English classes, but I never read a novel that moved me or understood poetry. Fiction and creativity was a hurdle, a puzzle to unravel to get an A.
I took a career path that led me through writing from the logical and linear trajectory of a scientist. Writing in that capacity is all about sequence, structure and flow. The main goal is to not lose the reader through the thorny path of data and theory, so they emerge on the otherside knowing what you really needed them to remember.
I learned the craft of writing in the most unromantic way possible, writing, rewriting, editing, re-editing technical documents until the rhythm of grammar stuck in my head. A methodical tap, tap, tapping that would let me know if there was a piece of my paragraph that was out of tune.
My writing might have stayed in the realm of technical literature if it wasn’t for a series of profound spiritual experiences that were intense and magical beyond my capacity to explain them. And I didn’t just want to explain them, I wanted to share them. I wanted to express the depth and texture and richness of my experience so that other people would feel what they were like.
For me, as soon as I started to write a feeling, I started writing poetry. What is more, I started to understand poetry. Understanding poetry was something that I thought I was incapable of before I tried writing it.
From early dabbling in poetry, to novel writing and blogging, my writing has expanded tremendously. Writing started as a way to share experience, but now it has become the experience.
I am happy to return to blogging daily. The commitment to post something daily has coaxed many great pieces of writing from me. Now, I feel I have somehow shifted away from the inner critic that says ‘you have nothing to say’, to the abundant muse, constantly whispering ideas in my ear. It is delicious.