Today’s post is something I’d like to dedicate to writing.
Now would usually come a sentence like “I’ve always loved writing,” but I can’t exactly say that. I can’t help but remember all those graded history essays I had my mom write for me. So maybe it’s more accurate to say: I enjoy writing when I’m free to do it on my own terms, without rules or structure.
What I really love is that rush — that slight adrenaline — when a great idea suddenly hits me, or when I find the perfect way to put something into words. That feeling is addictive.
Over the years, I’ve written poems, essays, speeches, reports, compositions — and even one fairytale book. I’ve always loved fairytales. They tend to have happy endings, they’re easy to remember, and honestly, pretty easy to invent too — because in that world, there are no limits. And I think that sense of freedom has carried into my other writing as well — not so much in the storylines, but in the way I choose and play with words.
If I had to describe what writing feels like, I’d say it’s very similar to painting.
The blank page (or, in this modern world, a fresh Google Doc) is the canvas.
The words are the paint.
The pen (or your fingers on the keyboard) is the brush.
And the artist — or writer — is the one who gives it meaning.
It’s kind of funny, actually — me, someone who’s always felt a bit disconnected from art, explaining it this way.
Not that I don’t value art — I absolutely do — but I’ve always felt like I’m not “intellectual enough” to fully understand it.
Still, back to writing. I’ve always had this secret idea in the back of my mind: that one day, when I’m “grown up” (whatever that means), I’ll write a book.
So no, I don’t plan on letting go of writing. And for now, blogging feels like the perfect way to keep the words flowing and the creative muscles warm.
The sun isn’t shining here
Yours, V
Where I Stand 