Many things I do in life are rooted in either pain or passion. Sometimes they overlap.
I started writing because of pain… I write today because I’m passionate about it.
When I was younger, I was terribly shy. Especially around girls. Or adults. Or anyone I hadn’t met before. It was actually rather crippling. It wasn’t the cute, “Aww, that 4-year-old is hiding behind his mom’s leg.”
It was more like, “Why was that 12-year-old man-child staring at me, and when he noticed me looking, why did he slowly slink into the shadows?”
I did things like hike my gym shorts dangerously high and think tall white socks were cool well into the 2000’s.
If I ever ran for president, newscasters across the nation would address their audiences feverishly, “Do you think a man who used to tuck hooded sweaters into his jeans is fit to run this country?”
The answer is no, people. Definitely not.
Growing up, I would spend the better half of every day steeped in novels. Partly because I loved to let my imagination run wild, and partly because I didn’t have to be in uncomfortable social situations that I didn’t know how to handle.
When I was younger, my mind worked faster than my mouth could, so I found myself unable to properly communicate what I wanted to. Which left me ashamed, especially if it was in front of someone I didn’t know.
So I took to writing because I could communicate the way I wanted to without being embarrassed.
When I wrote, I sounded beautiful for the first time.
As a mid-teen I came out of my shell and felt a lot more socially comfortable. Although I still really dislike parties where I don’t know anyone… makes me super uncomfortable.
Occasionally I’ll see myself, 12-years-old again, frozen by timidity. That’s why I started writing. To have a voice. Over the last decade it’s matured and evolved. It’s a passion and I write because I love it.
Deep down there’s still those memories of why I started. Feeling voiceless and ashamed.
When I think about it, sometimes it pushes me. Sometimes it makes me feel embarrassed that I went through that. But every time, I reach the same conclusion: I wouldn’t be the same person I am today had I not gone through it.
And I’m a decent writer today because of it.
Question(s) of the day: What got you started writing? Was it out of pain or out of hope? Why do you write?