The Start
The beginning of any new blog for me has been a way of starting anew, getting a clean slate, sort of like opening a door to get a breath of fresh air- I can explain through more metaphors, but one gets the drift. I've always been thin lipped about the existence of any of my blogs, save to two or three people over the last eight years of digital writing. I'm not exactly sure why- maybe because I do not know how to write without being terribly personal and therefore, slightly vulnerable. Add to that 5 years of studying literature and the self-imposed pressure to write well.
I struggled with finding my own style of writing for a couple of years until I stumbled upon a blog I had at 15, and I was shockingly startled by its simplicity. I wrote about broken windows, tiring school days and my ailing grandfather, and the words came to me so spontaneously, so naturally. I became jealous of my 15 year old self, who could write without judgement- not anybody else's but her own-for that was more terrifying. I waded through archaic words, high brow academic language, romantic fancies, forced poetry, heartbroken prose to finally settle for what I did at 15 (and what, I realise with dismay, aligns to a certain Wordsworthian definition)- write spontaneously. Write what I think, write how I feel. Without any ornaments, without any decoration, without looking at larger narratives, without looking at a greater good. I will do what I had always been doing- write for myself, but this time I'll be easier on myself. I'll let myself go without reading it a million times pretending to be a third person and feeling embarrassed for baring bits and pieces of myself through my words and then backspacing them into oblivion.
I'll be a little more honest, this time.
I struggled with finding my own style of writing for a couple of years until I stumbled upon a blog I had at 15, and I was shockingly startled by its simplicity. I wrote about broken windows, tiring school days and my ailing grandfather, and the words came to me so spontaneously, so naturally. I became jealous of my 15 year old self, who could write without judgement- not anybody else's but her own-for that was more terrifying. I waded through archaic words, high brow academic language, romantic fancies, forced poetry, heartbroken prose to finally settle for what I did at 15 (and what, I realise with dismay, aligns to a certain Wordsworthian definition)- write spontaneously. Write what I think, write how I feel. Without any ornaments, without any decoration, without looking at larger narratives, without looking at a greater good. I will do what I had always been doing- write for myself, but this time I'll be easier on myself. I'll let myself go without reading it a million times pretending to be a third person and feeling embarrassed for baring bits and pieces of myself through my words and then backspacing them into oblivion.
I'll be a little more honest, this time.
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