I used to think that free writing was something that we did in school when the teacher wanted us to practice our writing skills without us knowing. In high school, there was creative writing class, and we did free writing again, but those snippets of ideas were forgotten after the notebooks were graded and filed away. Everything that we did back then was for a grade; it didn’t really hold much dedication, rhythm or meaning to the act of free writing.
This week I started free writing again, but somehow it felt different. Why this act of free writing felt new eluded me until this morning when I realized that it was the ritual of writing without borders or criticism that changed the feeling. There is something meaningful when you open a new notebook and sit at the desk for five or ten minutes and simply write about nothing in particular. The pen becomes a divining rod for ideas. The writing feels more real and deeply rooted in emotion when it is all about putting pen to page rather than staring at a blank Microsoft screen. It just works better.
I hadn’t really intended on learning anything today, but then sometimes that just happens, doesn’t it?