From a young age, I loved writing. I wrote short stories, I wrote about the things I felt. In my daily life, I had a running narration in my head, like I was describing my experiences and lessons as I lived them. When I grew up, I knew I would be an author.
As school went on, we traded creative writing and open assignments for structure and clear argument. I cut adjective after adjective, emotions, and felt knowledge that wasn’t fact. My writing became persuasive, but impersonal.
At work, my writing turned “professional”. Short emails, lists instead of prose, what did the donor need to hear or the team members need to absorb most. Emotions were replaced entirely by “data” and what would pass for fact. For the most part, I had stopped writing for myself.
And yet, the urge to write for myself would bubble up uncontrollably when I neglected it for too long. It would come at weird moments, often mid-travel, early morning or middle of the night. It felt like Liar Liar, when Jim Carrey couldn’t help but blurt the truth, even when he comically tried to restrain himself. The moment would come swiftly, I would pour my thoughts onto the written or digital page, and then I would walk away with relief. Usually they were letters to myself in that place, like “Letter from Afghanistan”, or from a space in life like more recently “Letters from Motherhood”. Sometimes I wrote letters to far away people I never sent. Once I wrote a letter to my favorite comedian, Amy Poehler, after reading Yes Please.
My letters were sporadic because I resisted with my litany of excuses – I don’t have time, I’m too tired, it’s middle of the night, what a silly waste of time. So I put my writing in a drawer, and only allowed it out when it absolutely burst onto the page. Then I bottled it back up, and locked it away again.
Until…I made space for writing in my life, alongside a whole bunch of other passions and adventures that had been rotting in the drawer. It felt freeing, like breathing fresh air. The words flow not just at night or in a flurry, but calmly and more often now. It’s becoming easier to write again in my own style, with all its imperfections and quarks, and share that with others. I know I will write my children’s books about all the animal characters I made up as a child (and even an adult). I know I will collect my “Letters” together to publish, even if for myself and my family. I am once again an Author.
What passion have you hidden in a drawer, that’s ready to bust out?
Let out that inner child and explore your passion through coaching!