ery late last night, one of my oldest friends texted me, he’s been having a bit of a rough time for a long time and sometimes he just needs someone to talk too and vent too, and I’ve always been willing to be there in any way that I can. In fact I’m happy to help any of my friends when they need it.
Writing has always been a form of emotional release for me, through writing I can vent my feelings, and I can disappear into my story, and after doing this for almost a decade now… it’s easy to take for granted just how much writing does for me. Until something comes along to remind me, how much writing is my own form of therapy. Because not everyone has this creative outlet to disappear into. Not everybody has the ability to slip into their own world and write down their emotions and desires and obsessions in the hopes of creating art.
I’ve come to realize something out of all of this. For as much as I groan about the worst parts about writing, and for as much as all writers whinge about certain parts of the process… in an odd way, we’re luckier than most. Growing up, no matter what happened, I always had my writing to disappear into, I always had it as a form of therapy, and that’s not something everybody can say. The ability to channel all of the emotions, the good, the bad, and the ugly the heartbreak, the upsets, the happiest memories and our darkest hours into art is a gift. One that we should try to share with the world wherever we can and maybe we can inspire someone else to find their own gifts and share them with the world.