I’ve had a relationship with Writing for most of my life.

I was formally introduced to Writing in kindergarten. I learned about her, letter by letter, and I understood her mentally, but sometimes our physical relationship struggled as my 5 year-old hand shook and cramped, holding the pencil over the special dot-dash paper.

As I grew, Writing became something I needed to convey my thoughts in school. I used her to tell my teacher what I wanted to be when I grew up (at the time, a restauranteur), to organize all the information I’d learned about mourning doves, and to express myself in letters to friends and cards to family. I liked Writing about those things, and my ability to do it well made me feel “good at school,” but I never considered spending much personal time with Writing.

In middle school, my maturing thoughts and feelings became too mixed up to straighten out in my head, so I turned to Writing to help me untangle, grow and become who I wanted to be. I wrote big, in sketchpads with colorful markers. I chronicled my life. Sometimes I thought about using Writing to tell the stories I made up in my head- my “imaginings,” as I called them, in homage to Anne Shirley. I’d start a story now and then, but I didn’t understand enough about the art of storytelling to continue them. Writing and I were personal friends, but I wasn’t ready to take it to the next level.

Then I entered high school, and while I still relied on my sketchpad journaling, I was also very involved in music, and it became my primary expressive outlet. As I took more honors and AP classes, I was spending more time with Writing than ever before, but it was required and therefore not all pleasurable. I felt rebellious toward Writing; too often, she would pull me toward the computer when I wanted to be out with my friends. My personal relationship with Writing moved into the shadows.

Several years passed. I went to college, and my journals fell by the wayside. The digital age had well and truly begun, and I was using Writing for emails and instant messages. I was expressing myself to others, though not to myself. I was majoring in music, so I spent more time in practice rooms than I did in front of computers. It seemed as though my relationship with Writing had died, that we had broken up, moved on.

A few years into my teaching career, my writing spark was re-lit. I didn’t have a specific life-changing moment; I just gradually became interested in getting to know Writing again. I started keeping a new journal, on my laptop this time. I found that the minutes I spent with Writing were some of the happiest, most thought-provoking of my day. I started thinking about working on a novel, though I had no idea how to go about it. I got curious about my my grandmother’s relationship with Writing. My grandmother was an artist her entire life; only her medium changed, from oil painting to collage to needlepoint. She took up with Writing during her last decade or so, producing books of poems and stories about her life, and the life stories of other older men and women.

Then my grandmother died, five years ago this week. We had been close, and I missed her very much. But I believe she left me a gift; I believe she passed on her passion for Writing to me. It was at that point, while grieving for my grandmother, that I became serious about Writing. I started to spend more time with her; I wanted to learn everything I could about her. I read books, took classes, started experimenting with the different shapes and forms she took. I began producing physical monuments to Writing: short stories, blog posts, a novel, and of course, endless pages in my journal. I made these things in Writing’s name, but she gave them and more back to me. She gave me healing. She gave me creativity. She gave me confidence. She gave me passion.

Sometimes my relationship with Writing is difficult. I feel overwhelmed by the stream of thoughts and ideas she puts in my head. I get anxious about whether I’m conveying my meaning to the people who read those thoughts. I get frustrated when I want to be with Writing, but I have other obligations to fill. I feel jealous of people who have more time to spend with Writing, and of people who get paid a living wage to be with her all day, every day.

In the end, though our relationship will never be easy, I love Writing. Though many others share her gifts, my journey with her is unlike any other. I have faith that she will lead me where I’m destined to go. She and I are forever twined, as husband to wife, as mother to child, as friend to friend.