Writing about my writing

So I have been writing here for a couple of years, aiming to explore the experiences of my life. Somehow, I skipped the essential one. Writing. And writing about writing is pretty much as meta as it gets, but stick with me, I promise something equally relatable and beautiful can come out of this.

Now, as a kid, I loved stories, and, rumour has it, I started reading when I was five years old. As soon as I did, I was terribly excited about exploring all the books out there, and I do mean all: I read fairytales, yes, but I also read encyclopaedias on nature, and medical books on common childhood ailments (I kid you not - my favourite entry was on hiccups, because that was one of the few ones that was said not to be harmful, and it always felt so reassuring to me). When I got my first library card at seven years old, I remember thinking that I would never be bored again. It felt like such a discovery. And so I read. I would visit the library before or after school - by the time second grade kicked in, I was a proud member of two libraries, one next to my home, and one next to my grandparents’ home, let alone the school library, which didn’t seem too enticing for some reason. So I would wake up, get ready for school, and read until I had to leave for school. I would read on the bus back from school. Or at my grandparents, who, at some point, got concerned that I am reading too much.

However, I do not quite remember when I started writing. I do recall glimpses of it. I recall how easy it was to write the essay that the teacher gave us as a homework assignment. Mine ended up being several pages, and it was easy, I wasn’t thinking, I was just writing. Sometimes poems would visit me, sometimes they’d have a melody to them, offering themselves up as a song. I never treated it seriously, maybe I still could. I do remember the hunger for writing though. And as the blog bubble was bubbling, I remember this ache to write, I needed to. At that point it wasn’t something specific - I didn’t need to share my views or tell stories. But I saw the world and I wanted to share that way of seeing. Desperately. And I remember the moment when I realised I couldn’t not write about it. It was early spring, probably March, and the metal fence on the riverbank was broken. The massive blocks of ice floating down the river managed to get pushed up the riverbank, pushing through the fence, leaving a mark. And that was it. That scene felt so poetic, not even symbolic but somehow powerful in itself, that I had to write about it. Yet again - I kid you not.

I don’t remember if I did end up writing about the ice blocks moving up the steep riverbank and threatening to reach the wooden huts. But it was the start of my first blog, which I ended up writing for over a decade. I had a following. I made friends this way, and that is when the first part of my writing identity was formed - I was one with the writers. Other writing people were my people, and we had things to discuss, even though they were just other people writing blogs - often much older than me, and even more often astounded that I was just a fifteen year old kid. I kept writing. I ended up taking interviews. I carried on writing. At university, I started another blog, in English this time - up until now it was all in Lithuanian - and I called it “In Circles”, which felt like the most perfect name for me at the time. I wrote about the overlap between the circles of philosophy and science. Mostly psychology research. The echoes of which you can still hear in my Letters from a Psychologist these days.

But writing gave me much more than friends. The second gift of it was self-understanding - I soon realised that I can write my way out of almost any situation. Just thinking through it may be tricky, but once I would start writing, the answers would just fall on the page in front of me. Really, it was quite magical. Soon all sorts of writing practices came to my mind. If I was overwhelmed, I would just write, beating the keyboard with the intensity of my emotion (which, actually, explains a lot given how poorly some parts of my keyboard work), but the thing is, a few pages later, I’d realise that I’ve written it all out, and now I was ready to read it. And as I read it through, I figured, I could write an answer to my letter of emotional chaos. And I would. I would read it as if it was an email from someone else, clearly in need of, well, someone else, and I would write to them with all the love in the world. By the time I would be done, I’d be so full of compassion to this strange being, in tears half out of awe, half out of the residual overwhelm. It worked every time and I preach it every time I get a chance. I haven’t tried it in a while. I should. Another writing game I’d do is something I carelessly called an Anxiety Writeout, where you just list everything that worries you, until everything - and I mean everything - that worries you is on the page, so you can observe it peacefully, finally living on a page instead of just on your mind. Maybe some of those things can be changed. Maybe not. But at least it’s information instead of the vague unease.

When I moved to Lisbon, one of the first groups I joined was creative non-fiction writing. At first I felt like I was somehow imposing, but soon I realised that most of the people were just like me - people who love writing, who have been writing for years. Some of them had books published, some had not, some of them taught writing, some had not. Somehow, we all found so much in common, that the details didn’t matter much for the quality of our writing time, and, even more so, the quality of our discussions. I wrote most of the essays on this page in those meetups. So, in a way, you’ve been there too. And therefore, you totally know what I’m talking about.

This year for the first time I started to truly accept the writer identity. Not to dream of it, not to desire it, but simply be it. And when in a storytelling event a kind stranger asked if I am writer, I was ready to give her a convoluted answer, but, instead, I confirmed that I am. I write a lot, therefore I am a writer, just as that. I don’t have to publish a book to keep writing. For the longest time I had this idea that I could only write if I created a specific project, with a specific theme. What a whole lot of bullshit. You can just write. Just journal. Just write your anxiety out. Just write about blocks of ice on the riverbank. So I don’t limit myself anymore. The result? I write a few pieces every week.

Now, I have no idea how many of you are reading this (especially how many of you have reached this point), I may be speaking into the aether, but, well, it’s a pretty insightful place to be, so I really don’t mind being there. And here’s my point - writing is really worth it as a process. Regardless if anyone reads what you write. Regardless if you see yourself as a writer. Because even if you’re not, you are living your life (per definition). Which means that you have sensations, experiences, thoughts, emotions, dreams, regrets, pain, wishes, plans, musings. Now, writing them down makes them so much clearer. But also - it helps you remember. Because every day we go through thousands of moments, interactions, happenings. And it all melts into the mist of the Past. At some point I realised that there are years where I barely have any strong memories. So I started writing down notes about my days. Sometimes they are abstract thoughts, sometimes - oddly specific bright details, that transport me straight into the moment. Your notes can become time machines, bringing you straight back into the moments you want to remember - or that you’re reluctant to come back to, but believe can be useful to analyse for the future.

Finally, the last practical note (not that they all have to be practical) - writing is such a great alternative to staring at your phone. On a train? Write a haiku to your friend’s newborn baby (been there done that, baby!) In a restaurant? Write about your plans or dreams, depending on what format feels more appealing today (plan your dreams or dream your plans!) In an airport? Nail down all the tiniest details of your trip, you’ll forget them easily and you’ll be so grateful for your past self, believe me. You can even doodle (as you can see in my illustration - no way I’m sharing my writing, but doodles feel less overly personal, so here we go).

So if you’ve been looking for a sign to write, this is your sign. If you haven’t, this is a push to write nonetheless. Or, if you’re rolling your eyes at both, at least it’s an explanation of how I came to write and why I keep sending you newsletters. There is probably no better time to write more than the end of the year. All up for reflection. All up for planning. All up for you.