I’ve been thinking way too much lately. Drilling my brain over the margins and blindly missing the big idea centered in between them. When really, I should just be doing what I love: writing. Letting the words flow out, as they dance around and figure out their own paths along the way.
Tonight I took a trip back in time. Back to my early years of high school, when life was beautifully simple and, like most youth tend to do, I didn’t appreciate that simplicity. Rather, I waited and waited for the day when I could move out on my own and see the world. Now, I’m out here, and ‘the world’ is amazing. But it’s nothing like the dark lonely nights when I would pour my soul out onto a notebook with no other cares in the world.
Climbing rooftops of shopping centers, passing the time with the moon and just…writing. There wasn’t much else to do in the suburbs at night, so I thank whatever god mans the watchtower above for blessing me with creative outlets.
I’m at a point in my life where I actually get paid to do something I thoroughly enjoy, but I seem to have lost touch with writing for myself. I write for casinos, convention and visitors bureaus, agency websites, networking events, corporate communications, social media strategies, and more. Being a copywriter is like being schizophrenic–juggling a dozen other voices, and often misplacing my own.
So here’s mine. Echoing through the night sky, off the lonely rooftops and graffiti walls in the dead quiet of creativity.
