When I was younger, I thought I’d be a writer when I grew up. It wasn’t just a dream that I yearned for or a goal that I aspired to. It was almost more of a feeling; when I imagined myself as an adult, I imagined a writer. It was the natural extension of all the reading and daydreaming and thinking that I did. I loved words, and I was fascinated by my favorite authors – I wondered where they got their ideas, what their lives were like, and how their stories unfolded in their minds. I also placed myself among them, like we were in some secret club that they didn’t know about.
But writing isn’t some secret clubhouse that literary-minded, introspective kids are shuttled into when they grow up. It takes intention and a lot of commitment. And I haven’t given it that.
I’ve been thinking lately about that feeling I used to have about becoming a writer, and I’ve been feeling a pull to get back into it, with more intention and commitment.
Although I didn’t become a novelist, I love my current career, and I’m inspired by the endless potential I have to help people in real, tangible ways. Maybe I’ve been thinking about writing lately because my job is inherently about other people, and I relish the idea of taking on the deeply personal endeavor of writing something.
So I’ll start with the path of least resistance and use this space, while I work towards writing something more than a blog post.