When I was little, I faithfully kept a diary (meaning I actually wrote in it Every. Single. Day.) I stopped when I was 12 or so, maybe because I imagined that only children kept diaries, and that I had “grown up”.
Two years ago, I took a Swiss literary course titled “Le journal intime”, in which we studied the personal memoirs of Swiss writers. Some of those people were pretty out of whack…but they wrote anyway, so why shouldn’t we all call ourselves writers, from the first time we pick up a pencil?
I never followed through on learning to play the piano or the guitar, I don’t sing often (when I do it’s in the shower or with my girl Adele, in the car) and I can’t paint or draw, and it’s actually incredibly frustrating to not have a visual creative outlet (that doesn’t involve pretty food). But sometimes, words come into my head in an order that I like, and I think it’s because I forced myself (I was a weird little girl) to write, every day, for several years.
So, I decided to pick up some of the strands floating around my mind, and begin weaving them into something coherent. I want to share what I write (about anything and everything) because keeping it in a diary or contained in my head feels like not saying it at all, and because like a musician or a dancer or a painter, I’m trying to put something of myself into the world. It’s just the act of self-publishing that gets it out of my head and creates some space.
I am striving for expression, not perfection- for once- but I appreciate any feedback or ideas, and I invite you to comment, to write me privately or to share my writing, as long as you acknowledge any quotes as mine, and preferably link back to the source. All images are mine, unless otherwise specified.