I do not claim to be anything but an amateur writer. I know it is not the best, nor do I think it will lead me to get my name on the New York Best Sellers List. The reason I write is that I like it. Writing is freeing, and the words I write tell a story that may mean something to someone. My life is as ordinary as it gets. I live in a small farm town. The most excitement we see is the Christmas Light Parade, or if we are lucky, some people may go by on horseback. Sure, I stay busy living life, but it is not glamorous or a high-profile gig. I want to think that every life is worth writing about and every story is worth reading. Who gets to decide the worth of someone’s life story? If we feel anything matters, that should count for something. It only takes one to see the value of another’s story. Each and every one of us brings an extraordinary contribution to the proverbial table of life. I often wonder what it would be like if we put higher precedence on ordinary people over striving to keep up with the celebrity Joneses. I think being able to relate to others who are like us is a more realistic venture. Reading stories of an underdog or seeing triumph come after obstacles makes for a compelling life lesson over the people whose sole job is to make a gain from winning us over on a gimmick. I will always pull for the heartstrings story when pitted against a publicity pull. I get it. Not everyone enjoys reading, and even less enjoy writing. But, if more people wrote down their thoughts and feelings, I think those would be some of the most beautiful stories ever written. Imagine all the stories that will never be told because a person does not see value in their own life story. It seemed like every summer (from elementary school through middle school) was going to be the start of my consistent journaling. It usually lasted about two weeks, if I was lucky. When journaling fizzled, I turned to write a book that I hoped would get published. As an eleven-year-old, I had no clue what went into writing a book, and I for sure did not know how to get a book published. Those reasons are precisely why I have an unfinished draft of a pipe dream tucked deep away for one to never see. I said all of that to say this: whenever I tried to be a writer, it did not work out and was hard to do. When I turned to writing as a creative outlet to just say what was on my mind, it was as if I had just opened the door to a new realm. I learned it does not take having the title of a writer to simply write; it is a mindset. Before, I was forcing it too hard and was doing it for the wrong reasons. Now, I write for myself first with no intentions, and if it helps someone else in the process, I feel my writing has served a greater purpose and contributed to the world somehow. My way of journaling has morphed into something I never expected for myself, but I like where it has taken me. The organic flow of creativity and self-expression has proven to me that no matter what we say, do, and write, we have the sole power to make it meaningful in life’s journal. Stay Curious, Kayla ©Inquisitive Perspectives 2018
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