Pen to Paper.

I've always been vocal. Wehther it be typing up my daily revelations, casting my vioce to an anonymous audience of laptop screens, or scratching my favorite ballpoint through the crisp pages of yet another Mead college ruled notebook. I feel that I can compose myself so much better on a piece of paper. Which isn't to say I'm not eloquent in person, because I am. I just thoroughly enjoy the ability to backspace. To cross out. To change my future with a bottle of White-out.

I've needed to write out my feelings for as long as I can remember. A few days back, when looking through an old box of nostalgia, I came across a 12 year old's version of a love letter. Scribbled on a piece of paper ripped out of my science composition book, this letter to Joey was swirly cursive and love poems, complete with hearts dotting the I's. I proclaimed my love for him in the most passionate way my gangly preteen self knew:  commenting on how I loved his new shoes, how i wanted to hold his hand, and how his new girlfriend was a "beeyotch". And yes, those were the exact words. I knew, that if I found some cute, clever way to slip this message to him, he would be mine. Unfortunately, I majored in Shy and Awakward in middle school (as did most of us, I'm sure). So instead, I folded the note up, wrote some desperado love song on the outside, and threw it in a giant plastic Rubbermaid box, swearing up and down that when the time was right, I would make sure he knew just how I felt.

It's now been eight years, long and gone. I haven't seen Joey since the day of our high school graduation, and I most certainly never proclaimed my love for him, mostly because it evaporated the moment an attractive new boy transferred into our school. But something much better, much more powerful, came from my unrequited middle school crush. And that would be my most personal love, my writing.

That same rubbermaid container is now sitting in my garage, in my brand new home, where I had vowed to leave the past behind, and start over with a fresh piece of paper.When I originally made my move, I left the box behind, saying that the memories were too old, too unimportant, too distracting from the shining sun I was driving into. I then made my way in my new life, 500 miles from the box full of memories. And I didn't give it a second thought until I went back to my hometown to visit. When I realized it was still there, tucked away just where I left it, I couldnt resist pulling it out and rummaging through. Two hours later, I was surrounded by an ocean of letters, journals, essays, secret notes and poems. It absolutely amazed me how thoroughly I had documented every event, every thought, every passing day-by-day habit. I wrote an entire journal entry on whether or not I should tell my best friend how much she had been bugging me one day. (for those curious, I did let her know :)) I wrote an overly wordy note to that same best friend detailing my feelings on every piece of choreography in our dance show. I had recorded every scandal, happiness, and heartbreak that shaped my high school years. I wrote double entede papers for my English Literature class,  which seemed to be a descriptive narrative of a trip to Carmel, but upon a closer reading,  revealed how alone and outcast I felt in my circle of friends. Without even meaning to, every word I wrote was a mini-autobiography of my day to day life.

It's been a few years since I've been locked in a classroom with nothing to do but put pen to paper. Over these last few years, I've written some, but not as much as I should. Most of my prose has been triggered by a major life event, breakup, family crisis, or a "reinvention" of my life. I've still clung to that urge to process these moments on a piece of paper. I've still had the need to scream out the things nobody needs to know, and my journal has been my savior. Luckily, these little life earthquakes have been fewer and farther between, as I've grown consistently older and wiser.  But however much that's benefitted my overall demeanor in life, it's torn away, bit by bit, from my writing. And I'm slowly realizing how much I miss this routine being in my life. So often, I feel like I don't have anything to say, anything to write about. But being an intelligent creature means I possess a whole lot of brain, of which only 10% is being used at any given time. (I'm sure at some times, 10% is being generous). But a lack of words isn't the problem. It's allowing myself the moment of peace and clarity to work through my thoughts, to find inspiration from them, to reflect on my musings and have them lead me into new directions. I have a lot to say. Like I said, I've always been vocal.