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Sunday 24 March 2019


Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash
The more savvy amongst might have noticed that I bloody love to write – that my heart is at its happiest when I'm tip-tapping away at a keyboard, bringing a story to life. But what many of you may not know is why I write in the first place. Well, grab a cuppa (and maybe some tissues) 'cause you're about to find out.

All sarcasm aside, my adoration for words knows no bounds. The fact that I craft them as my day job is a bonus, really; it is in no way the driving force behind my love. I would still be a writer, even if my penchant for penning never brought me a penny (okay, I'm just showing off now). Why I write is three-fold.

I'm a nerd by nature: this one's pretty simple, and is probably the most ~boring~ answer. Hey, you can't give everything away at the beginning – there'd be no need for a middle and an ending, otherwise. I've always been a fairly academic person, priding myself on my scholarly achievements. I'm the girl who bagged three As at A Level and a First in her degree. I'm the girl who continually turned down plans to slave away at her desk instead. I'm the girl who submitted her dissertation the week before it was due. That's just me. And so, by extension, writing has always come to me fairly naturally. Understanding how to use a semi-colon; knowing the difference between a hyphen, an en-dash, and an em-dash; being a keen advocate of the oxford comma... it may sound basic, but spelling and grammar are my thang. And that's why I write.

Writing is my therapy: and I'm sure that I'm not alone in this one. Throughout my life, writing has brought me a sense of peace that nothing else ever has. It's a common coping mechanism to embrace your pain and transform it into a thing of beauty – to "take your broken heart, make it into art" (as the late Carrie Fisher once, rather wisely, said). Some people find solace in a blank canvas and paintbrush; a guitar and a microphone; a theatre and ballet shoes. But my cure? Words. Every. Single. Time. Whenever something has gone pear-shaped in my 24 years, I turn to the power of language. Be it poetry, a blog post, or illegible ramblings on a tear-stained page, noting the musings from crowded mind has always been my saving grace. Beyond the release I feel there in the moment, writing is a great device for self-reflection. What a wonderful (albeit sometimes heart-wrenching) feeling it is to look back and know that I got past whatever trouble I was facing – and that I'm stronger for it, now. And that's why I write.

I want to change/save somebody's life: here's the biggie. The hotshot. The top dog. The VIR (very important reason). I can hand-on-heart say that I do not remember when I first fell in love with words – but I do remember when I realised the power they hold. Perks of Being a Wallflower, this one's all thanks to you. Slumped in a black leather chair in the corner of my parents' kitchen, my legs nonchalantly slung over one of the arms, I realised. Experiencing my first ever bout of depression, not understanding the ferocity of what I was feeling, I realised. Words have the incredible power to make you feel as though you're not alone. Not now, not ever. Perks taught me that, and I will forever be grateful. It gave me a reason to stay; to keep trying; to find happiness again. And if my tenderly crafted prose can make that difference to just one person's life – even if that person is, in fact, me – that'll be enough. That'll always be enough. And that's why I write.

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