As I try to ease myself back into blogging after an embarrassingly long break, I thought I would reflect on why writing is so important to me. As a journalist, I write news articles pretty much every day of the week. And it feels good to be doing something that comes so naturally to me and which I enjoy. However, sitting in front of a screen and typing all day has made me less enthusiastic about writing in my free time. And this is something I am determined to rectify.
While I have long considered travel to be a form of therapy for me, I believe it’s about time I returned to what was my first form of therapy, my first love: writing. That’s not to say I’m going to stop travelling for good, but since I can’t travel all the time (unfortunately), I can at least take comfort from another hobby, one that I can enjoy anytime, anywhere.
I miss the freedom that comes with creative writing, with just letting your imagination go wild. Indeed, I began writing stories almost as early as I could hold a pencil. I started off by journalling as a child, and then building on the characters of my primary school friends and our “adventures” together. I wrote when I was happy. I wrote when I was sad (which thankfully wasn’t very often during childhood). I enjoyed both documenting and building on my own changing emotions. I went from writing with pencils to typing on my stylish pink Barbie typewriter to typing on computers (those big 90s-style beauties) and back to writing in notebooks (with pens this time) – I’ll admit that it is easier to type (for corrections, etc) but nothing can compare to scribbling your thoughts down in your best handwriting on a crisp, clean sheet of paper!
Anyway, I remember finding out my mum was pregnant with my younger sister when I was 7 or 8 and as part of my mission to convince my parents to name her Jade, I began writing a series of short stories about a mischievous baby girl called, you guessed it, Jade. When she was born and I knew what she looked like, I illustrated these stories with drawings, as well. When my youngest sister Claudia was born, I similarly began writing and illustrating my own amateur comic strips about a superhero/spy/royal (you-name-it) family based on my now complete family (excluding future pets, of course). I had been a bit too young to write a story about my brother Matthew’s birth, but I have fond memories of us designing our own magazines and composing song lyrics for our own family band (something I’m sure most people with siblings have done). At one point, we even began designing our own rather ambitious gaming world with character descriptions based on our favourite video games (think Dead or Alive, Mortal Kombat, etc). Writing thus shaped a significant part of my early years, and I’m not just talking about textbook exercises in school – although being the nerd that I am, I can’t say I minded doing those much either.
Then came the dreaded teen years. As I slipped into depression, severe school stress and eventually developed an eating disorder, all of which I later realised were linked to my (unachievable) desire to be perfect and in control, writing and sketching (paired with long walks and a regular dosage of anti-depressants) greatly facilitated my recovery. I distracted myself by writing about strong young women, many of whom had been wronged or were trapped in some way. I’ll admit there was often a handsome man by their side too, although these served more as eye candy than the hero; every story had a female protagonist. Other stories centred around a strong group of female friends, some of whom would have magic powers while others were just trying to survive secondary school (much like myself). The irony here is that I traditionally had more male friends (bar my long-term, long-distance bestie Danielle) up until recently; I am grateful to now have my very own strong female support network.
Another way of expressing my emotions during my teen years (besides crying and excessively exercising everyday) was sketching. During what could be described as my “Emo” or “Goth” phase, I found solace in reading and writing gothic literature (“Dracula” was my favourite) and viewing and creating gothic art. I often depicted myself in the form of beautiful but sad fantastical women, longing for their escape, and using imagery related to mythology, the moon, witches, vampires, and so on.
Indeed, for many, a love of writing naturally comes hand-in-hand with a love of reading. English Literature had always been one of my favourite school subjects and it was in creative writing and literary analyses that I most thrived. I even wanted to pursue my studies of this subject (alongside History) at university, before ultimately opting to pursue another of my life-long passions: languages. In the end, I had no regrets because I knew that I would continue to read and write in my spare time and, as for history, well, I ended up doing a master’s in it anyway!
Unfortunately, whilst I could finish reading a book in the space of a few days, I never managed to finish any of my stories or would-be novels, cursed by my over-active imagination to forever start and re-start stories in the middle of another. This challenge followed me to other contexts, too: at university, I was one of those few people who could never stay under the word limit during essay writing. Even now, as a journalist reporting the facts, I often struggle to keep my articles concise. But I’ve come to accept this as part of who I am and I don’t believe this attention-to-detail has been detrimental to the quality of my writing. And hey, who knows? Maybe one of these days I’ll finally fill up one of my hundreds of pretty notebooks with the next bestseller – or at the very least just finish a story for once! In the meantime, I’m committed to keeping up my writing skills through my blog and my career as a journalist, writing articles and the odd opinion piece (see Chronicle.lu for some of my latest pieces). I’m also setting myself the challenge of regularly reading (and indeed sketching) again in the hopes of getting those dormant creative juices flowing once more. In fact, my boyfriend and I will be driving back to Ireland in the near future on a mission to recover my dusty old book collection…
Personally, I feel that as we get older and take on new responsibilities (studies, working, family commitments, etc), it can seem like we have less time for our hobbies and passions. But where’s the joy in living if we can’t do the things we love? So, if there’s an old hobby you’ve hidden away in recent years, even if it now seems childish or pointless to others, why not make an effort to slowly get back into it? Dig out those old Lego bricks or colouring pencils and get lost in old passions!
