I used to write

I used to write

I used to write

2 years ago

words ()

There was a time when I did not choke on the word “writer". When words were a safe haven from a confusing adolescence and were closer than any family.
I was very young when I started drawing pictures on blank white paper given to me by my father on summer days when he took us to his workplace. He was free from worrying about us cooped up in the house unsupervised and I was free to my own self-expression. Eventually those pictures needed words and I wrote them. I wrote a series starring a cooler version of myself and I lived in a world where all problems disappeared unlike my real life.

Then one summer I kept writing and those words filled chapters, which eventually filled my first unpublished book.

Then my words attempted to sing and dance off the page; my version of poetry.
Then I decided to blog and the words slowly began to lose their sheen as a result of unrealistic expectations and envy. My focus veered off the page and instead of losing myself in my words, I lost myself in others.
My twitter bio used to read, “Writing my way to freedom,” only I felt further trapped behind my wall of empty words.

On Facebook, my old roommate posted a snippet of something I wrote when I was in graduate school. It was full of personality and funny. It reminded me of when I used any excuse to write, including subjecting my roommates to monthly newsletters so I could flex my creative tongue.

I miss that girl.

Writing used to be a creative outlet, the way a shy girl could speak aloud. I never thought, “Is my writing good enough?” I just wrote.
I miss that girl.

Brenda Fadeyibi
Brenda Fadeyibi
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