Sometimes, when I can’t sleep – I write. I pull my knees into my chest, scrunch up my toes and hunch my shoulders towards the screen.
It’s times like these I’m thankful for computers, for the speed I’m able to type. With all these thoughts whirling round my head – I watch my fingers reach out in front of me. They dance. The motion familiar, rythmc. They know what I want to say before I even do. They reach towards the letters in quick succession and tap tap tap in harmony.
When I feel anxious, I find it therapeutic to write. It doesn’t matter what I say or whether it is steeped in meaning. What matters is my head connecting with my heart.
I find writing difficult. I love writing, I have studied it for years and yet I still find it the most complex form out there. Nothing ever feels right. Words are everything, yet I still find they’re not enough.
The skill of a writer is hard to determine. You have your obvious measurements. But, how do their words make you feel? Do I need to be technically sound, or emotive? Or somewhere in between.
As I sit here, scratching at my nails in intervals, cocking my head quizzically – I wonder why I write. I wonder what impact I want it to have. Then I wonder why my words are special, why reading my words might add value to your life. Maybe they won’t.
Maybe you’ll just sit there and think – that was a girl who wrote this in the dark in her jammies, likely a little drunk. And that, well that, is probably enough for me.
Because that is, quite simply, the truth.