thoughts, writing
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Write every day, they say.

I’ve been getting stuck into my beloved Jack Canfield, dealing with feelings that have taken me by surprise, reading my old journals and searching within. I’d forgotten about my internal pledges all those years ago to become a writer. It was such an unusual feeling to be reminded of how badly I once wanted it.

For a passion that was embedded so deeply, how and why could I have let it go? 

I think back to who I was back then, and I started to theorise that maybe it never got off the ground because it was all about the idea of being a writer. The sheer romance of it all. It would explain why I never submitted my work — well, I could count on one hand the work that I sent — but that doesn’t make much sense to me because I don’t submit my images for photographic competitions and awards as a photographer today either. I could also argue that perhaps I just wasn’t ready for submission all those years ago. I mean, I wrote a lot of shit, lots of self-indulgent crap. It was raw and stiff and shallow, and just so damn awkward.

Does it mean that I love these art forms just so that I can indulge myself? I effing hope not. I know that’s not true. It would appear that I had lost my way. I am trying to find the words to explain how it really feels inside to come back to something that I abandoned years ago, to pick it up in my hands after I left it for dead. What matters the most is that I can see the path again. 

The plain fact is that I put down the pen and paper for a camera. I fell in love with an instant art form — art that is born when the shutter clicks. I feel bad for all the words that I haven’t been writing all this time.

But then again, the camera has been a valuable tool. Perhaps having a second outlet for storytelling will give me some authenticity as a writer — an added dimension that my prose lacked before I found the camera. 

Going back to this old love of mine makes me feel like a new person.

I need to read more. It was a problem before and I refuse to let it be a problem still. When I write today there isn’t enough life in my words; I should be using all of my senses but I feel like I only tap into half of one. I want an assignment. I need to go straight into the deep end. But first, I need to refine my goals, clean up my office… and no, fuck it, no more excuses, I already have everything I need to do this.

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