I didn’t have access to a pen and paper. No ink blots were to be left as stains on my hands and parchment. There were no sticky notes around, no computers or phones to type with, and no notepads to doodle in. It was then that I knew that I wouldn’t be able to think.
At times, the only way I can dissect and delineate my thoughts is to write them down. I’ll have vague ideas in my head, stories sitting on the edge of my tongue, but no way of describing what’s bouncing around inside my head through word of mouth.
Letters scrawled out on paper and images painted with penned language are, oftentimes, the best way to figure things out. Even when I’m listening, small doodles, abstract shapes, and notes in shorthand better solidify the message locked away inside the mind. The conversation of rich words is better digested after being presented on paper, and so I continue consuming chats and discussions through the act of writing.
Writing for me has become a tool greater than just a means of expression. It’s also a powerful and dangerous arsenal that can be used and modified to take charge, change the world for the better, or even destroy it. Words can be written to document lives, record versions of history, bind people together, and drive them apart. Writing becomes a cathartic and medicinal drug that can change moods, introduce new ideas, and create worlds.
So, when I noticed that there was no way to record my thoughts and to work things out I felt as though I was missing something. It was as though I needed to cross a raging river and couldn’t get down to the point on the riverbank where a sturdy bridge could get me quickly and safely over to the other side. I knew the bridge was there, but an added obstacle restricted me from my preferred way of arriving at my destination.
Although I’m still learning about and experimenting with my arsenal of words and phrases, I feel comfortable enough to continue practicing and writing every day.