Reading words like these yesterday lit a fire — once again — under that faint, stubborn longing tucked away in the deepest corner of me: the wish to write a book, to become a writer, for reasons I’ve never quite been able to name.
Wanting to write until I’d had my fill, I sat down every morning from 6 to 8, before work, and just wrote.
- By spending my hours more deliberately, I think it’s finally time to wash the grubby pile of laundry I’ve been letting sit in my chest for so long.
I started writing down one joy a day, and over time those entries gathered into a “book of joys.”
- I loved this way of making the act of writing feel easy, feel light.
The reason I write every single day is to put color on a memory so it stays with me longer.
- Reading the line above, I realized that rather than recording things exactly as they happened, I’m laying my own colors over my own memories — almost like painting a picture.
- Through my own feelings, the mood of that very moment, my own vocabulary, the way I quote things, my own style —
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