This weekend I happened upon a few pages I’d written as a college senior—a stormy time in my life to say the least.
I was struck by how personal and vulnerable the writing felt. I caught myself nodding in agreement as I captured the difficulties of writing, and to a larger extent, life. How tough it was to find sustainable inspiration and to express a particular understanding or observation in a meaningful way.
I often wonder why I feel the need to write. Why do I continue to guilt myself into writing paragraph after paragraph? Why do I struggle to make something from nothing? I don’t have an answer, but I did find a clue in one of the lines I dug up: