Tuesday, January 19, 2016

I've been reading and writing more lately. Did you know I've kept a diary since I was 9? I would keep notebooks by me and write. Then sometime around the age of 12 or 13, I began to write even more regularly, about 2 - 3 times a day. Then when I was in high school, I wrote in my journal at least once a day. It wasn't anything special. Mostly I recounted my day in my journal because I didn't feel comfortable sharing the minutiae of life with any of my friends. And for a good 3 years while I was a teenager, I kept a public livejournal where I made lots of virtual friends through the internet. My virtual friends and I would read each other's livejournal entries and comment on each other's day. They actually did feel like my friends, even if I had never met them in person. This is not sad. Please don't read this and think what a sad life. It was actually the opposite. How wonderful that I was brave enough to share my teenage written true-life stories with strangers! I'm no longer that brave.

For most of college, I kept up my habit of writing in my journal everyday. In addition to that, I'd even write hand-written letters and send them via post. I remember I had a callus on my right ring finger where my pen often rubbed against. I no longer have that callus and it causes a deep nostalgic pain in my heart. All for a missing callus. Most people try to get rid of their calluses but that is one callus I wish I could have back.

But sometime in college, I met a boy who is now my husband. Sometimes I wonder why I don't write as much anymore. And I beat myself up over it. I want to record my days in my journal, just like I used to since I was 9. But sometime in college, I met a boy. During my last year of college, for the first time in almost a decade, I stopped writing in my journal everyday. I wrote almost everyday, but not every day. That was a big difference. My journal no longer became my confidante. It was no longer the holder of my secrets or--let's be honest--the keeper of all my boring stories. Sometime in college, this beautiful boy suddenly started listening to all my retellings about my days, and he actually enjoyed them. He wasn't a blank empty page waiting to be filled. He was a human being who responded to my stories. He'd laugh or smile, groan and scoff at the right moments. I don't know why this is so important to write down. But I need you to understand that when I stopped writing consistently after a decade of dedication, it was for a good reason. One that I never regret. I started loving a boy, and he loved me back.

Now, I am writing and reading more. And the beautiful boy who I met while I was in college lives with me. And now it's him who nudges me towards my laptop or notebook. Now he's the one encouraging me to write, and who understands if I'm not ready to share a story yet but instead tells me to write it down.

It's come to a full circle and I finally have the same joy and passion I had when I was 9 -- when I received my first diary and discovered what it meant to write.

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