I think I’ve always loved stories. (I mean, who doesn’t, right? Is that the most obvious statement ever written?) Since I was little, I remember being emotionally invested in every bedtime story told to me by my mother or grandmother (I was in the lucky category of kids who get to spend a lot of their before-school years with their doting grandmothers). Then, even after I was of reading age, I had the good fortune of having a mom who still enjoyed reading to us at bedtime. Stories, both oral and written, such an integral part of my childhood, became a part of who I was.

I think as soon as I realized I could tell my own versions of stories, or completely make them up, I fell in love even more, and started writing for myself. I remember a sense of excitement at the thought of producing something that came from some unexpectedly awakened area of my imagination. I loved playing with words, and finding a new way to convey a common thought (my never-ending search for the perfect phrase). Everywhere I went for a while I wanted to contribute my take on how something should be presented to the world. So, for a while, I wrote, shared with whoever would read it, and tried to keep it up. I even had a friend who made room on his website for his friends who were interested in sharing their writing (but not in having to learn how to put together a website). It was fun. And with a semi-deadline, it helped to stay semi-disciplined in producing something semi-regularly.

For a while I even tried to work my writing into the otherwise decidedly non-creative jobs I had while trying to make my way through school. I corrected forms, memos, employee handbooks, and even sometimes braved bringing my obviously wasted editing skills to the attention of those in charge. A few friends sent some freelance work my way (one of them being the generous website friend), to my delight and gratitude. But I never found my way into a creative field for good. And as other things in life started to take up more time and energy, eventually setting aside the time to write for pleasure (which really, in my case, should be labeled for sanity) became as neglected as a New Year’s Eve resolution in February.

There were of course other aspects to it. I started a few blogs and even websites, determined to consistently put out material, if only to express my thoughts with the slight possibility of feedback. I had always preferred expressing myself in writing. It’s so much easier to present the exact thought you’re trying to share if you have time to edit. It can lead to fewer misunderstandings (though not always, since there’s no predicting the reaction of your audience), and it can make you sound more rational, peaceful, and together. Or at least that would be the goal (again, you can’t control the perception of your audience).

I had always written with a sense of humor. But at some point I felt it slipping away from me, as it somehow became more difficult to know what would be seen as non-offensive. Between that, all the responsibilities of real life, the natural tendency toward laziness (come on, it can’t just be me), the strangely depressed-sounding inner monologue of not having anything worthwhile to say (the positive flip side of this is being in awe of so many others who have said it and said it better...and then realizing there might not be a point to trying to say anything because someone else will do it anyway, possibly better), and feeling a lack of the creative space in which to do the work...well, it all adds up to an unfulfilled creative soul.

The exhilaration of creating is such an important, yet I think underappreciated, aspect of life. I would probably at this point say it’s the most important aspect. I don’t even think it matters what form it takes. Life can’t feel fulfilling without creativity. (Am I being naively controversial in saying this? I hope not.) We seem to search and search for the meaning in something so short and seemingly meaningless, and talk about it to death (literally). But I think it’s so obvious.

I was watching an episode of one of my favorite TV shows from years ago, amazed at the timeless brilliance of the writing. And I felt that familiar excitement again, of both being so in awe of these inimitable craftspeople (sounds weird compared to craftsmen, doesn’t it?) and of actually being inspired to go back to seeking out my happiness (in, let’s face it, the best way I know how).

Stay tuned…