And yet, I must write

I discovered something the other day. I need to write. Not that I ought to write regularly, but that there is a part of me that must express itself in the written word. Just like I need to talk and eat and think. It was quite a surprising discovery, though people have told me for year that I ought to write more. But I never thought of myself as a writer; I did my thinking and sharing by talking and listening. I wished I could write better, but I never felt any urgency or compulsion to do so.

Perhaps it is the time of life that I have now entered that makes me want to put my thoughts down on paper where I can come back to them and put them in order and make them beautiful. Perhaps it is the fact that I feel that I have time to think and sit down and write. Perhaps it is the suppressed writer being born. Perhaps it is an effect of reading good books. Perhaps that it is that I want to use my computer for more than look at things online. Perhaps it is nothing of the sort.

I guess the why doesn't really matter at this point. Because I must write. I put it off and think that I haven't anything to say, but when I finally stop and let the words in my head take shape into sentences and paragraphs, there is a relief and relaxation. As if the words themselves where a burden that I no longer have to bear. And so, here's to new discoveries, new ways of expressing myself, and new blog posts and blank documents.

I must write.