Wow. I’ve had all this energy to write and I’ve been thinking about writing and I’ve been craving time to sit and write all day and, now, I’m in front of my computer staring at a blank page wondering what the hell do I even want to write? Surely I’m the first person to ever experience this feeling. I can’t imagine that any author, journalist, blogger, or poet I’ve ever read has had this exact experience. What now? I suppose that I’m writing still. Does it really count as writing if I’m just writing? Doesn’t it have to mean something? Maybe not. Maybe all I need to do is just write. Maybe I just need to do the thing that has given me inspiration, the thing I’ve been thinking about, craving, all day.

So here I am. At a humble beginning of my writing practice. Alone. In front of my computer. With a keyboard that I enjoy too much to be considered normal. I’m fighting every urge to hit the backspace and start all over and write something more meaningful, whatever that means. I don’t even know who I’m writing for. Certainly not any readers. Who would ever read this? I’m just writing for myself I guess. What meaning is any of this to me then?

Writing, to me, is simply a way to express myself. I’ve always been a writer, though I have hesitated to ever consider myself one up until very recently. Labels and definitions terrify me. When I was young, in elementary school, we’d have a reading log for homework. Thirty minutes a day signed off by my parents. I was often bored at the thought of reading. Video games and TV were just much more entertaining. Occasionally a book would capture me, but more often than not I’d protest doing my reading homework. My mom eventually worked out a deal with me: I didn’t have to read, I could write. So that’s what I spent most of my daily thirty minutes of ‘reading’ doing.

I wrote in a little ugly journal that was designed to look like old and yellowed paper with little American flags collaged over top of it. I wrote about a lot of things: how my day went, who made me angry, who I had crushes on, being mad that my mom was making me spend thirty minutes writing even though I’d rather play a game or watch SpongeBob. I did that for years. When I learned to type I had the idea to write a book about a game I was obsessed with, Call of Duty: Big Red 1. I had come up with a story with four different points of view and scenes and chapters that I would build upon day after day. I had probably written about twelve chapters or so before giving up on it. Those files are surely long lost to the twenty years of the in and out rotation of desktop towers at my grandparents house. I won an award for a speech I wrote in the eighth grade. I wasn’t even intending to write for a competition; I had to write the speech anyway so, when my teacher said they could be submitted to a competition for extra credit I figured why not? A month later, my teacher told me the speech came first place and I was invited to enjoy lunch and give a reading of my speech in a conference room downtown. It, too, has been long lost since despite some efforts to find it all these years later. In my adult life, I’ve maintained a journaling practice for more than a decade at this point. I keep many journals these days. Some, to simply record a highlight of my day. Others, to jot notes down about recipes I try. Always one to parse the endless flood of emotion that life forces on me.

I’ve always been a writer. I’m still a writer. Nowadays, I have goals in writing but I’m finding that the most important thing is to just sit down and write. It doesn’t need to be serious. It doesn’t need to be “meaningful” or “thought provoking” or worthy of being written for an audience. It doesn’t need to be any more than the simple act that I’ve always enjoyed. I don’t expect or assume an audience. My writing isn’t for you. My writing is for me and is just something I do because it’s something I’ve always done. It’s a part of me and I won’t turn away from that anymore. The meaning is in the practice itself.