I’m not sure how someone could wander the world without writing–or claim to be a writer but not be drawn to wandering, always at the ready with bags packed (and a pen or laptop in hand). I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember–as a kid, composing poems and stories for my mom and producing homemade newspapers with my cousin, Teresa. As it turns out, she majored in communications/journalism in college, while I went the way of English.
For a few years when I first ventured away from home, I tried to break the habit. I’d decided to do something more important with my life . . . a businesswoman or a scientist, perhaps. But the thing about writing is that it calls you back, which is a good thing all-around since writers do their best thinking while (surprise) writing!
Once I decided to major in English, my days were filled with plenty of writing. But I don’t think I realized what writing does until I was diagnosed with cancer in 1993. At the advice of doctors, other survivors, and self-help gurus in the cancer realm, I took up journal writing. Some days, my mouth was so riddlled with ulcers–a side effect of the Adriamycin I was given during chemo–my journal was my sole outlet. I couldn’t talk, but I cried plenty and dotted page after page with tears.
Since those days, I haven’t left home without a journal to record my wanderings–physical, emotional, and spiritual. Sometimes, those fragmented thoughts are for my eyes only, and other times, they land someplace where others can read them. I’ll add links to some of the latter as I go.