A literary love story.
Photography by Wix Images
By Bree Duwyn
I can’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with writing. The physical act of pressing a pen to paper, the tendons in my wrist bending to the will of electrical signals from the brain, how instinct overrides thought in a race to write every word that passes under my breath. I hurry to chase the train of thoughts before they vanish under a tunnel, much like vanishing into the confines of my mind, a evermore twisting labyrinth of words, memories, ideas, emotions.
When I think of writing, and the physical act of writing, and what it means for me to write freely and with passion, I think about my existence on this earth, as in, is it my purpose in life to write? Everyone must have more than one definitive purpose. Is there a reason that I can’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with writing, simply because I never took a moment to question it? The routines of life offer a semblance of familiarity, but questioning the changes of everyday life and recognizing that patterns are made to be broken offers an insight into what we truly spend our time thinking about.
Without questions, then what would lead me to think about the most simple act of putting words to paper? These questions may not have finite answers but they, in retrospect, are finite thoughts to be considered. Even as I am writing this, I am aware of the physical aspect of writing, tapping at keys on a board, indelicately and with a fastened haste. I notice that I will mouth out the words I am writing if I feel I am thinking too fast and in turn, writing too fast. I sing along to the soft music I set in the background while I am writing because it no longer feels mechanical, to write, but instinctive. Normally, I will reread, go back over every word of every sentence looking for flaws, but when I come to realize the purpose of writing and what writing means to me, I think to myself the same thought, every time, “I can’t remember when I fell in love with writing.”
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