On finding the time to reacquaint myself with the act of writing with reckless abandon.

I wish I had the audacity to write with the same reckless abandon I did when I was a teenager. I’m not sure exactly when the words stopped flowing onto the page without pause, only that they did.  

I remember, in my youth, watching an episode of Roseanne (this was in the 80s or maybe early 90s — long before she had become problematic). In the episode (at least how I remember it) Roseanne was trying to rekindle her love of creative writing. Only, it never took hold. There were kids to look after, a husband, chores and responsibilities. I recall thinking to myself that I would never let that happen. I loved writing … I still do.  

Now, however, I understand those pieces of life; the responsibilities that youth don’t often (and shouldn’t) need to consider. I wrote poetry and prose, less often but still, throughout the years of my undergraduate degree. I graduated, moved to another province, and began my off-again, on-again career in community journalism. I wrote hundreds of stories about people, and places, and things. My other writing, however, the creative words and phrases I poured directly from my heart onto the page, became less. Eventually, they stopped.  

I’ve tried to go back, pick the words up again, stop my mind from pausing to consider if the next word is the perfect word; what people will think when they read what I have written. To make my journey to reacquaint myself with writing as a practice of introspection and emotional release, rather than a task I must cross-off on a to-do list, nested in between utilitarian tasks like laundry and cleaning out the back of the fridge.  

Writing began to feel like a chore, because I made it that way out of necessity.  

Yet I continue to carve out sacred spots of time to sit in solitude. Pen in hand, or cursor blinking on the screen, trying to coax back to life the fierce and unwavering parts of me who felt both power and release through the act of writing words on pages.