I Owe Myself Joy By Gillian F. Barnes (@geezfresh)

A writer who says writing brings them joy? well, obviously, but for me, it really is that simple. Writing brings me joy in two ways; professional achievement and therapeutic.

Writing professionally has always brought me praise. Even as a student, I was able to earn high marks easily and win competitions, and these days it provides me with both full-time income as a part of my day job and side hustle cash. It's very real validation for something I find enjoyable. Validation of that kind makes me happy.

Personally? Now that one is a bit harder to explain, but it goes back to why I make art of any kind-I am processing my world therapeutically. Back when I identified as a primarily visual artist, I used my work to explore my innate loneliness. Even when I'm with others, and despite how I may present, I often feel outside of things. That same theme runs throughout my current work in progress. Exploring loneliness and less unpleasant emotions in fiction can hurt, but ultimately it makes me a happier person.

What I'm saying is that the art of writing about very real, raw scenarios, conjured or no, in a journal or in another longer form allows me to release some of the things I allow to hold me back, de facto making me happier. As of late though, I haven't been able to write in that way. I think about writing for me, and I simply can't. It isn't writer’s block, but rather there is such a buildup that it feels impossible to process. Part of me knows I must do it because, to be honest, I haven't been joyful much lately, but the rest of my being is screaming to go the ostrich route.

I want to get back to being joyful and I suppose telling you that by writing this down is the first step. If you don't see me writing-I will be doing it, but not all of the contents of my mind is fit for print. I promise to work through things-somehow. I owe myself joy.