Last night whilst sorting out some boxes underneath my bed I came across a box of old notebooks. Now bare in mind that I have been writing stories (albeit very simple ones) since I was old enough to hold a pen and some of these notebooks date back to me being just five years old where I wrote stories using the only words I could spell and drew alot of pictures to accompany them. Along with these notebooks are all my diaries (one a year since I was 14) which chronicle my teenage years in great detail (far more detail than I would ever want anyone to read in some cases) and the notebooks that mark the begining of what I call my ‘serious writing’. Then at the bottom of the pile of notebooks I came across my eating journals, and it got me thinking about the reasons there are to write.
I don’t know if it is like this for everyone (I was only in a writing group for a brief time and we never touched on this) but I like to write everything down. It’s a release for me, especially with my diary and so when I developed at eating disorder in my early teens it felt only natural for me to write down exactly how I was feeling. Reading back on these now I find it quite distressing, as it was a horrible time and horrible mindset to be in. Whilst there are sometimes the odd glimpst of this mindset rearing its ugly head (I hear an eating problem never really leaves you) it has taken me a long time to get back to normal again, and in a lot of ways reading back over the journals helps me to realise how silly it all was.
My reasons to write are much different these days, although I still frequently write a diary, and I very much use writing as a way to sort out all the little thoughts in my head. To me once something is written down its no longer an issue anymore, it’s forgotten, its released…unless its my book then its a completely different issue.