Please forgive me for thinking aloud, for words were my first passion. I spoke before the age of one, had a diary by the age of seven--which later turned into the less gendered "journal," and have continuously played with words, fought and loved them, since then. Writing used to be a therapeutic tool for self-revelation and making some sense of the world and my not always pleasant experiences in it.
My writing has become less therapeutic now, and more as a documentation of life. Less angry young person and more calm and collected. A sign of growth? Yes. Many changes, nearly all positive. I used to religiously write sporadic poetry in a poetry book, and journal entries in my journal. I actually used to relish going to bed, so that I could put on some mellow music and just write like a madwoman. I still average about six pages--front and back--for one journal entry, as I sit near the window with the sunlight filtering in. No more writing in the dark.
My husband says that I need to finish writing my book, a novel that I have been working off and on, on, for nearly a decade. This was in response to my fear of a 9-5 job; my dreamer thoughts and aspirations. His constant support of my creative spells helps to soothe my anxiety around all aspects of art-making. My very high anxiety.
Words, of the academic and kindred sense, were the first things that we connected with. Him and I. Now husband and wife. The past three-and-a-half years have seen so many lovely changes. I hope that I can be as supportive of him as he has been of me.