Don’t try to figure out what other people want to
hear from you—figure out what you have to say.
BARBARA KINGSOLVER
When I was in my early twenties, I enrolled in an online creative writing course. I did this because I loved writing and wanted to write more, and because I wanted to have a creative outlet for my writing (apart from my own journal).
It had been several years since I’d left university to pursue my career as a hair and make-up artist. While I was being creative through my make-up, I was still craving an extra hit of creativity. I needed to sit down and write … I just didn’t know what.
But the main reason for enrolling in the writing course was that I’d just ended a relationship and I felt sad and needed to heal. I needed to heal through my writing: by using my words to build me back up; by spending my time in a way that felt nourishing and built momentum. I needed to feel like I was moving forwards in my life, not wallowing in the sadness of a relationship that was over.
I enrolled, as nervous and excited as a little schoolgirl on her way to big school.
I didn’t know anyone in the course, but as it was run purely online, I didn’t feel the nerves I may have felt if I’d had to walk into a building where I didn’t know a soul. The extent of my online interaction was giving weekly feedback on the work of two of my classmates, which was easy enough in my semi-fragile state.
The truth is, while I was joining a group of writers, I didn’t really want to make friends. That sounds selfish, I know, but mostly I wanted to write for myself. I wanted to lift myself up through words of fiction; I wanted to create something out of nothing, for no reason at all, except the meaning I placed on my own work.
That was many years ago—over a decade in fact—and so I don’t remember what I wrote. But what I do remember is the pure, deep, inner joy I felt at making tea, padding down the carpeted hallway, walking into my bedroom, closing the door softly behind me and sitting down to write, for absolutely no-one but myself.
In kinesiology—and energetic, metaphysical medicine—we understand that we hold stored emotions and memories in our bodies. Part of my work as a kinesiologist and healer is to help clients release these to help them move forwards.
Now, if you believe this on any level—that we can hold rage, anger, pain and grief inside our bodies—you’ll also believe the flip side: that we can hold love, joy, peace and contentment inside too.
My memory of sitting down to write and create, for the pure joy of it, for myself first, for my own healing, for my own need and desire … well, that’s stored inside me. So when I go to sit down and write, I reactivate that memory deep within. Although I initially booked into that writing course to heal from a break-up, I did it for myself. And I did it with love for myself.
And so that’s one of my favourite, most treasured memories of writing—because I wrote for myself, first. Even though I felt sad, I showed up for myself and found I could write with joy. I wrote with no-one else. I wrote for no-one else. And funnily enough, I wrote fiction. (Okay, confession time! I secretly dream of writing a novel one day—perhaps I’ll come full circle.)
If you want to sit down and love what you create, you have to make it a habit to actually sit down and write—or create—for yourself, first.
Too many of my clients struggle to sit down and get going, because they’re still wondering who they’re writing to, or what they’re creating.
It’s said that you should write what you know, and I agree of course. But I also believe that writing what you know isn’t the only way to write. In the same vein, I believe we can create (whatever it is your heart calls for you to make) to heal, for ourselves first.
Don’t think about anyone else yet. Create for yourself, first.
You can write to understand what has happened, where you are now, where you’re going, and how you’ll get there.
You can create what you know, and what you want to believe.
You can paint about what confuses and perplexes you.
You can start something that lights you up.
You can make something in order to heal, or to rise, or to go deeper.
You can compose what you want to understand more.
You can create from your heart, from your soul, from your inner guide and wisdom, from your highest self.
You can produce something about what you’ve just discovered, and about what you’ve always known.
You can create what you love, first.
You can create because you need to; you can create because you want to.
You can write because you have to; because if you don’t, the words you don’t say will burn a mark on your heart and you’ll always wonder … what if?
You can write because you might show it to everyone or to no-one.
You can write because writing about it is how you grow and expand, how you clear and release, how you strategise and plan, how you take action and receive, how you make your mark, how you show up for yourself, and how you serve others.
And also, perhaps most importantly, you can write—and create and make and share—because. Just because.
I create to heal, to discover, to grow and to expand. I let myself create because I love it, and I love what I create because I let myself do so.