I’ve wrestled with writing and with expressing creativity in general. If you’ve spent any time in this space, you are as painfully aware of it as I am. It has never been about the commitment to consistency or the love of translating experiences and feelings into words on a page. I think the struggle lies in the why of it all.

I’m slowly learning that writing has shaped the person I am inside, as I have sought to understand how to move through this world and with these people in different seasons. Both my writing and the words of others have helped name my reactions and responses to the good and bad that share space uneasily in the world and in my own inner self. As a child, I would discover a clearing in a forest, sun filtering through leaves. A magical space where silence wasn’t actually quiet but was simply the absence of the riot of noise we produce as humans moving through our modern life. Such a discovery would produce feelings that were deep and important, and I didn’t know how to understand the literal pull of longing I would feel. Then I would read the writing of LM Montgomery as she drew out both descriptive details and illustrated with words the bigger picture, and something inside of me would sigh with the relief of resonance. It is a very specific feeling; even trying to say it here feels inadequate and disrespectful of its heft.

While this would not have been true when I was younger, I suspect that the constant chase to document all of life in photos is a parallel experience for others. Where I might use words to capture an ephemeral feeling and transform it into something Real that Happened, the camera lens serves as proof that what one sees actually existed and meant something. I’m not opposed, although I tend to capture on film (file?) an image that will bring something back to me specifically but not necessarily mean anything to an outside viewer. (Moment of truth: this is true in my writing as well, which likely makes it fairly bewildering to many readers) Perhaps we all have a way we try to identify or categorize or codify our feelings into something that proves we were there.

In today’s world, I worry that in the spirit of progress and the better way, we are killing our inner drive to truly know ourselves. Somehow, we seem to take a good idea or tool and skip right past its best and highest use. For centuries, large people groups lacking formal education could not write. Expression happened through oral history and storytelling, but how often does one sort out their own personal feelings in that manner (and in a world where life was hard, hard, hard – who had the time to do anything beyond carry forward history)? With the spread of education came the ability to write, and from that an even larger group of poets and novelists emerged, helping put permanence to experiences and training generations of readers that they could do the same for themselves. But even as we discovered so many outstanding voices capturing generational human experience in words, Artificial Intelligence has now crept in to say, I can do that for you. If you already did it yourself, I can make it “better”. I can learn about you and then shortcut you to success. I can curate for you. I can curate you.

Similarly, the widespread accessibility of cameras and affordability of production and storage via digital format opened the door for amazing everyday people to document life in meaningful and beautiful ways. However, on the heels of this discovery came the online social media platforms, which lured us in with their ease of sharing and then turned on us, overwhelming us with the Algorithm that very authoritatively shows us the best way – the only way – to dress or travel or style our hair or pose with friends or position our couch. This algorithm, so difficult to manipulate, feels like literal brainwashing in its unending, inhuman dedication to curate our lives to its specifications.

The why of creativity is easily lost in a fast fashion world of expression. I think this is what stops me from putting words where anyone can see them. But I’m slowly coming to see that real writing is a form of rebellion. It is messy and riddled with less-than-ideal word choices and unclear plotlines and unnecessary punctuation. My writing is, anyway. I don’t claim to be A Writer, but perhaps there are plenty of those out there already. Perhaps the world can use a few people who just want to translate what’s inside into words on the off chance that they might be better understood for who they are – and show others they can do the same. Perhaps, perhaps.