I still remember being in elementary school when writing creative, imaginative essays was my favorite thing of all times.
I had this colorful writing book full of houses with gardens and simple-shaped birds flying around. With an oversized, happy family standing in front of it and waving. I never really stopped thinking what other detail I could add. I wrote fairytales about foxes, about adventure ways my dad and I took in the forest, about invented languages and myself being a detective, about a weekend with my grandparents, about the life and death of my pet rabbit (sheesh, the last one still makes me cry bitterly when I read it).
Actually, I wanted to become a writer.
Back in school, still utterly convinced about my plan, I remember how I wrote about the roaring tummy of a wolf in one of my stories. And how the teacher criticized, a stomach doesn’t roar, it growls. If I can remember it so distinctively, maybe that was the one moment where my passion started to decrease by just a tiny bit?
Over the course of the years, my path took the same “realistic” directions as anybody else’s around me. There’s no good money to earn with writing. Or music. Or acting. Go learn something proper. And if you then have time, you can pursue childish hobbies.
Eventually, I stopped writing stories. I stopped wanting to become a writer or an actress. I started working not out of passion but rather for my grades, for the best graduation, for university.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m utterly grateful for the way I grew up, and the values my parents taught me.
I guess… all that is part of “growing up”.
But having started this blog 3 months ago, I realize, I’m digging up some long forgotten emotions.
It’s a thrilling feeling.
And yet kind of a scary one.
Seeing this blank page. And the blinking line, waiting, patiently and yet somehow urging, to run across the page and fill, line after line, an endless white space with thoughts and pictures.
This white space could mean anything and nothing, it contains every story ever been told and yet to tell, but hides them behind an impenetrable wall of sheer nothingness. It seems like it is encouraging my fingers to press all these little buttons in a quick, thought-through order. But just as much as this wide space otherwise becomes unbearable to look at.
It evokes curiosity and fantasy, it makes joyful music seeable and incredible journeys tasteable and intense encounters tangible. And despite all the frustration it causes me regularly, despite the repeatedly nagging struggle to find my voice, it is pure joy to see the lines sum up to senteces, paragraphs, moments, years, lifes.
We’re not pursuing for SEO, features, monthly page views.
Not for praise or attention or approval.
But for that child’s genuine smile.
My tummy roars again.
It is passion.