why I write

I've been wanting a new blog for months now.  Actually, any old blog will do, but I was just too embarrassed at how long I neglected the last one.  I'm really excited about this, and I have so many things to say.




The problem is, when I'm out and about doing normal life, I'll plan out topics and ideas for blogging, but...when I arrive here at my computer, I lose focus and all my ideas. So for my first blog, I forgot all the epic and world-changing things I was going to say. I'm sorry.  I need to get used to this again. This is boring. This is why I'm a little afraid of blogs, too...because I'm afraid I was just deluding myself and I don't, actually, have anything much to say.




Alright. Here's the truth of the matter. Somewhere in the past six months, I realized that I need this outlet.  I need to write, and for some reason, the writing has to be "out there" in the world or the public or for someone else to read. I suck at journaling.  Mostly I can't stand the physical act of writing, and my wrist cramps up. In-class essays are the worst.  Typing is better. And, I very rarely write just for myself, to understand myself better or to get my thoughts out on paper.  That's why most people journal, but it isn't enough for me, and it never was.  When I was ten, if I thought of a good story, I'd run to my desk, and begin penning a copy for Reader's Digest.  I'm serious.  My grandpa sent me that magazine for probably ten years of my life, so maybe that's why I felt that everything needed to be shared.  Even the most personal of stories found their way into the public pages of Reader's Digest.  I don't count enough to be the sole audience even for my own thoughts.




But the funny thing is, once I start writing on my blog, or in a paper for a teacher perhaps, I'll discover hidden thoughts and motivations, and secrets I didn't know I had.  I don't start out in freakish desperation to expose my inner thoughts to friends and strangers and professors, but when I start making words and sentences, it's like suddenly my mind can process what it's been holding close. Like a hot wire suddenly touching another wire, and the electricity has no choice but run to the new place.




That's why I need to write.  Here's the best example I can give you, proof that words always outgrow themselves.  It may sound pathetic, but I barely realized the reason I need to write before I started typing twenty minutes ago.  At the very least, I sure hadn't hashed it out like this, so I could understand it.  And, I wouldn't have ever sat down to write in the first place for anyone but you, for anyone except everyone.  And when I did, I found a little bit of myself along the way.  It's really incredible, when you think about it.