I don’t say this to sound like a braggart, but I used to be a really good writer.

Honestly…really good.

At almost every age of school — elementary though college — teachers or professors complimented the style with which I wrote, the unusual way that I used the first person point of view, how concisely I could communicate a point, and the ease with which I transitioned between topics.

Because my writing skill aggregated slowly and over time, I took these things for granted.  Since I didn’t remember a time before I could write I didn’t think that there could be at time when I struggled to match my words with my intentions.

But it happened.

After college — exhausted from an overabundance of reading and ciphering — I lulled into the untapped exploration, and even enjoyment, of shorthand and professional communication.  But over time it seemed that the part of me that knew how to write with flourishes had atrophied.

To feel like you forgot how to do the thing that you thought you would always know how to do is a really powerless feeling.  It widened the burgeoning stream of self-doubt.

I can now see how improvements are being made.  I have a less difficult time ordering and articulating my thoughts, but I have found that struggling through drafts in long hand is an important step of the writing process.  The last time that the sound created by the scratch of pen against paper served as mechanism for production, I was in high school.  And there remains a prolific overuse of generic pronouns such as “it”, “these”, and “those”.

But my thoughts are more complete and the descriptions a little more descriptive.  I still have a way to go, but at least I feel as though I am on the right path.


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