Tuesday night I finally got back to writing. I hadn't done any writing (other than blog posts) since my Grandmother passed away two weeks ago. I wasn't avoiding it on purpose. There was just too much to do, too much to feel, too much to think about, too much to figure out. I simply did not have the time or energy or creative spark necessary to tackle writing.
But last night I opened up a Word document, gave myself a writing exercise to do, and wrote. I started and stopped about 10 times. It was really awful stuff. It was like I had forgotten how to put words together on paper. It was stilted and abrupt and disjointed.
Then I had that magical breakthrough. I'm sure many of you know it. That wonderful relief when the words start to flow, the ideas click and the easy joy of writing takes over.
And I felt my brain sigh with relief. Even though my writing had absolutely nothing to do with my Grandmother, my emotions, what I've been dealing with, or anything remotely close to it - it was therapy. In that moment I wasn't worried about being published or proper comma placement. I was just able to be me again. I was in my comfort zone. I was happy.
That is when I knew...I am a writer.