“Writing is rewriting.” I know this. I know this because I deleted and changed the first paragraph of this note three times. It’s not making me happy, and I can’t put my finger on why. But as writers, we’re supposed to rewrite. Right? I need to scream “stop” at the top of my lungs. I’ll let the word reverberate a moment in my head while maintaining the calm exterior for which I am praised.

I get caught in a trap trying to make something perfect, and lose myself. I lose my voice in trying to make things right for the “others” I view as the readers. What I forget in the process is these same readers have been drawn to me by the voice and style I present. What we all forget is our voice can change. We age. We travel. We continue to learn as we live our lives. At least, I hope we do.

I used to write in a journal every day. The process cleared my brain of all the junk, grocery lists, and tiny bits of anger and disappointment which lingered in the dark corners. I could then close the book and go about my day without those thoughts present to distract me. Connecting to the page clarifies and sharpens my mind. As an internal thinker, writing in a journal allows me to make those things external—without having to say them out loud. No one else needs to meet the creatures which make their home in my thoughts.

After a personality test this week and a writer’s presentation yesterday which focused on that test, something in my head clicked. I sat down this morning and began to journal again after an extreme hiatus. I had packed away a need, and it hurt me. I hadn’t realized how much. So I wrote all my crappy thoughts down. I found myself flipping through the pages and reading a few of my old ramblings during my designated writing time. Some were funny. Some were heartrending. Most were childish and petty. The best part about each of them is they are not stuck in my head. The thoughts on the page didn’t continue to linger lost in my brain. I swept lots of things under the rug up there as of late. I let my day job and its stressors interrupt me.

My day job is wonderful for more reasons than to pay the bills. I like what I do on a daily basis, but it is my day job. Not my dream job. I’m trusted, I’m respected for my creativity, and now I get to write a blog other than my own. Yet it is still not the independence from the day to day for which my heart pounds.

So I write. I find ways to write. A dear friend encourages me in my search. She seems to understand something is trapped inside waiting for its moment. Whenever it appears, I pray that it meets the expectations of those who are so patient. I pray it doesn’t break me to get it out. Whatever lingers on that page will be in my voice. My words. My thoughts. And no one can stop me from finding it.