I once wrote in elementary school. I was praised for my unconventional (at that age) use of verbs. I wrote in middle school and naively shared the story with friends. They told me that it was good and wanted more. Foolishly, I believed them and thought I had talent. I continued to write in High school, consuming stacks and stacks of books and stories. I thought, one day, I might be a writer. I entered college, so full of hopes and dreams, I wrote. Even as I was pressured away from it as a career. I studied rhythm and cadence, using essays as testing grounds and erstwhile laboratories to cobble together turns of phrase that to mine ears at least, seemed... nice.
It was nice. It was fun. But then I worried. I worried the mundane minutiae of everyday life and faced a test that I chose not to take. And I grew complacent. I grew lazy. I ceased to write. I let myself get swept away with time's passage, shelved my old dreams and dreamed other things. I moved on.
Yet, here I am. Writing again.
I often find life to be too busy to put thoughts to words to pen. And yet, in the quiet fastness of my mind, the thoughts and ideas will simmer and boil over and I'll write in fits and starts.
I have no expectations for my writing. They are mostly for me alone. And in that, I find, it's nice. It's fun. And that's why I write.