Dear Writer,
When writers talk about writing, we often talk about how hard it is, how the words don't always come, how we don’t always know what to do. How impossible it can feel just to sit down in front of a blank page. How dreadful that feeling in your gut is when you just don’t know where the next words are coming from.
I’m not sure all writers work from a place of joy, or even work toward a place of joy. Maybe some writers are chasing meaning, and more power to them. Some sort of fall backwards into it and have enough success that they don’t quit. Others maybe do it because they’re chasing fame or acknowledgement, even though writing is probably the least efficient pathway to fame or acknowledgement.
For me? It was joy.
The first time I felt joy in writing was maybe the first or second grade. My teacher gave us a writing prompt sheet with a line drawing of a kid in a baseball uniform, with attitude on his face and dirt on his knees, and we were supposed to write his story. I wrote about a kid named Spitball Spike who played on a little league baseball team, and lost myself in that assignment. Up until then, I didn’t know anything could be that much fun.
It was joy. I wasn’t worried about who would read it or whether they would like it or whether it was good enough. I knew it was good enough.
Because, baby, it’s always good enough. Sometimes, even when it’s truly dreadful, it’s good enough, because the path to good is through bad, which makes the bad good.
Don’t check my math on that. Just trust me.
Everything,
L