Why I have decided to write again...

Creating stories was something I always enjoyed. With a lot of other things in life, I have always felt like I am mainly doing it as a means to an end, to get something in return or because there was some kind of expectation placed on it, but I never felt that way with writing. I was creating stories from as early as I can possibly remember- or not even remember in my mum's opinion- apparently she used to sit me up on the kitchen counter in my baby carrier and I used to babble away as she peeled potatoes for dinner. I always had an imagination. I think all 90s kids feel this way, but it definitely was an era for using that brain for made up stories and making your own fun. I remember my first day in nursery, building sandcastles we envisioned would reach up to the sky, shutting ourselves in a telephone box (random?) they had in the play area and whispering ghost stories. Everything was an adventure despite not even leaving the back garden- it was a jungle, the racecourse from Wacky Races, a battlefield. It wasn't long until I was taught that beautiful magic of reading and writing and could start to put my ideas down on the page.

My dad was a caretaker in a primary school and my brother and I used to go and play there during the school holidays when my dad was busy fixing things up for the next school term. I used to sneakily steal exercise books (terrible, I know) and write little tales of witches and wizards, puppies who lived in the clouds and abandoned teddy bears looking for a home- always accompanied with little drawings. I would then force my family to read them. Passing the pages and running away before I could see their reactions to any of it. I didn't share my writing outside of the safe "family space." It wasn't something I was doing for others, really. It was purely for me. Something I enjoyed and I could indulge in. An escape into the imaginary worlds- the love of seeing my ideas develop and mould into something on the page. 

I kept a diary from the age of 9 until I left for university. I literally used to write in it every night. When I moved into my first house with my then boyfriend, now husband, my mum delivered boxes of them. They were cringe-worthy, of course. But they reminded me that I used to love expressing myself and dramatising situations. They were a way of communicating without barriers; exploring how I truly felt about things. 

Growing up, if I was asked what I wanted to be when I was older, it would be a list of jobs that had been drilled into me as being realistic, achievable but still ambitious. Vet, psychologist, optician, to name a few choices over the years. But if I was asked what I really wanted to be. If nothing could stop me, it was always my dream to be a writer. Yet, to me, this was like saying that I wanted to be an actor, or a singer, or a dancer. Lovely for a hobby, a pastime, an interest to spend time on every now and then- but not a career. And if you tried to do it for a career, then you were foolish and would ultimately end up penniless. So I stuck with the safer options, and sadly, the writing stopped at university. I am not sure if it was being out of my comfort zone, the lectures, seminars, deadlines, holding multiple jobs down to afford to actually live or just the amount of effort it takes at that age/ stage in life to actually find yourself, but it all stopped. The writing now wasn't for me- it was for university. Yes, I was still exploring things I loved- literature- but it was analytical, formulaic- things I studied, not things that flowed naturally from my imagination. I also found out I had dyslexia at university. At the time, it was devastating- especially when I was doing an English literature degree. It knocked my confidence and may have contributed to the lack of writing for myself. However, I have learnt that it actually doesn't really matter at all- yes, I make silly mistakes under pressure and find it difficult to follow instructions and proofread my work- but I wasn't going to let it hold me back in any way. I had come that far without it being a barrier at all.  I see so many students now with severe dyslexia to milder forms like my own and they are capable of more than incredible things in their reading and writing. I wish I believed in myself more back then, and I like to think I make sure that no student in my classroom feels that they are capable of anything less than the others just because they have to work a bit harder for it.

After university came my teacher training degree and then teaching itself which (as I am sure any teacher would know) involves so much doing for others, you never really have time for yourself. If I read (most of the time) it was for the books I was going to be teaching, GCSE texts, books I could recommend to students to engage them with reading. If I wrote- well, that would be model answers, departmental improvement plans (when I became head of department) and marking- so, so much marking. 

Even in the holidays, I would be so exhausted or so excited to just get away, that "time to write" seemed impossible. I would still admit to anyone who asked me that my true dream (the if- I- could- be- anything dream) was to be writer which would be followed by comments like "You should do it." "Well, you never know if you never start," and I would reply with excuses like, "I never have the time. I have far too much to do today," or "I'm tired, I would rather watch Netflix," or "the setting isn't quite right, I need to make a space to do it first. I will start once the house is decorated." (5 years on and we still haven't finished decorating...). It wasn't even motivation that was the issue. I think I was actually scared. I hadn't picked up 'the pen' in such a long time, I felt as though I had lost all of my imagination. I was worried I wouldn't be able to do it at all. I felt this the strongest when I taught my students creative writing at work and saw the wonderfully imaginative  ideas that they produced alongside the beauty and maturity of some of their writing. I wondered whether it was just a skill I really had when I was their age, and that my neglect of it had caused it to ultimately wither away. 

So, to get to the point- the reason why I have decided to write again. Recently, I have been given a bit of time to refocus myself, reconnect with who I am and distract myself from, you know, millennial pressures and all that. When I tried to think of something that made me feel truly happy, content, offered me some freedom and a bit of escape, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I needed to pick up that pen again (not a red one this time) and I needed to write for me. I just needed to take the plunge and write. Even if it is a load of rubbish, even if my imagination was lacking with age- if it had disappeared, I was determined to find it again. 

So I wrote and wrote. I have been writing non-stop for over a week and a half. I have fountain pen stains on my hand; I identified massively with Jo March when I went to see 'Little Women' in the cinema with my mum; I wake up in the middle of the night with random story ideas; I will suddenly think of something whilst watching a film with my husband and will have to scribble it down right then and there. I have lost hours writing and writing- and I love it. I love that I have rekindled that pure childhood love of writing again...and I just thought I would share exactly how that feels :)