I was a different person a year ago.
I don’t remember how different. I just remember that I was.
You see, I used to write in a diary. A really fat one.
It wasn’t a secret diary. That meant that my friends and family could pick it up, guiltlessly skim through it and keep it back. And that made me somewhat conscious of what I wrote. I couldn’t write absolutely everything, so I wrote only what I thought they would want to read.
I admit, I wrote some reckless things when I was annoyed, and that kind of helped me cool down. But however the page was marked by my fury, the people who read couldn’t feel it.
And so, I decided to start writing letters to myself. In a book.
I was kind of unsure the first day I wrote in it. Maybe I blurted out a bit more than I should have just at the beginning. I’m sorry if that felt kind of weird, future self. But I got familiar with the book earlier than I had expected.
The best part? Those are letters to myself. That means I write them and I read them. And that means I don’t have to think of what others will want to read. It’s just me, my pen and my book.
As a writer, apart from reading, the only way to hone my skills are by writing. And so I write.
Right now, writing letters to myself has proved very useful. And addictive.
And that’s just the way I want to feel.
Do YOU write letters to yourself? Perhaps not. But this is why I do. And I love it.