Love

I’ve never written more than a technical document, much less something grander. Maybe when I was bored or just passing the time, but not with serious intent. I’m an artist, so creativity is inherent in me, but writing creatively is a foreign dynamic. It’s not physical like art. It’s mental. Stationary.

I don’t know what possessed me to want to put imagery into words, but it started with innocent sentences, then the building of a character, a person, making them flesh. I followed this up with a scene. A building. A world. Before I knew it, I was captivated by the richness of it all. Putting it together. It was art unlike any I had ever experienced. It was beautiful.

Like a first-time gardener, I was invested in seeing the seeds I’d sown grow. Once I saw a hint of green poke through, I was engrossed. I watered. Weeded. Fertilized. But mostly, I experienced it with childlike fascination. I kept waiting for the next milestone. And then it blossomed.

It was the culmination of patience, excitement, and faith that I was doing everything right. It was amazing.

And while the garden analogy is familiar to some, it reflects my journey with a new hobby, nay, skill.

Writing has been a journey. A fantastic one. I haven’t enjoyed something so thoroughly; family, friends, and pets excluded. And I might suck at it, but that’s fine. I’m not beholden to sales and marketing. I’m in it for the joy. For wanting to express something inside of me that I love. I can’t get enough of it, and I urge you to find that thing that stirs you like that. Something you can’t wait to do more of. It’s way more rewarding than anything your phone will ever provide, or that ad will ever sell.