I Miss Writing

Drawing, Reading, and writing kept me grounded throughout my childhood.

Kid Jacques would be disappointed, though, if he knew that I'm not doing those things as often.  

Sadly, the worries of adulthood swept me into its drama for a little while. 

Don't get me wrong. There are parts of being a grown-up I enjoy. For example, finding a life partner in my wife and being able to nurture our children. Also, gaining a greater understanding and healing from things I didn't know had a chokehold on my life. I appreciate the clarity of vision that adulthood brings. Yet I still miss the optimism and naivete I had in childhood.

As a kid, I could turn a terrible day around by grabbing a notepad and drawing my heart out. I'd even grab anything to read and get lost for a while. Writing, though, was the most effective way for me to deal with my inner workings. It was as natural to me as breathing.

Long before I knew the therapeutic effects writing could bring, before I saw Doug Funnie and other characters from TV shows of that era embracing their journals, I wrote. I wrote as a kid in Cameroon in French, creating stories I wanted to exist. I wrote about the duality of being born of two different cultures when my family and I moved to the US. I worked through things in reports for English classes (always my favorite subject).

In my high school journalism class, I felt a responsibility to be honest and clear with my words. (Now, as an adult, I kind of laugh at how serious I was, but I know that writing truly sparked the fire under me.) 

But time slowly eroded the quantity and quality of my words. 

I blame social media.

The concept of social media is such a noble and aspirational ideal. Yet the venture capitalist approach of "saturating the market" by baiting us into "free" services only to turn us into willing cattle, milked of our information and expression, ain't really making the world a better place. 

Today I feel fooled.

I feel as though I was scammed into giving so much of myself into a digital vacuum because of my need for connection.

And that need made my words shorter,
my mind occupied, but not thinking,
and my ears hearing, but failing to listen.

The longer I stay in that vacuum, the more I feel that there is more pain than beauty in the world.

It would be one thing if it were true.

We now know that algorithms play with our perceptions of reality and manipulate our sentiments to keep us in a state of perpetual fear and distrust. A prime state to sell us trash.

Cat memes ain't worth any of this.

I've met many wonderful people over the years thanks to social media. I appreciate the connections and don't want to come off flippant about the true good it has brought into my life. Yet, I'd feel a bit disengenuous if I didn't mention the elephants trampling and destroying the room. (I didn't realize the pun that sentence ended up being until much later lol.) We have to admit that we made lots of terrible people rich by harvesting our thoughts. We're also:

• Writing shorter, devoid of nuance, to help our words travel further.
• Living in extremes versus the common ground.
• Blaming individuals instead of systems.
• Forgetting that trust and growth come with time, not manicured statements (and products). 

As you can probably tell at this point, I've become tired of being in that space. 

But more than anything, I'm disappointed at how I've allowed it to wittle down my self-expression over the years.

I falsely began to attribute "Likes" to connecting with others. While in reality, it caused me to cater to audiences instead of writing with no expectation. 

Hence, I decided to return to my blogging roots.

Before social media, my childhood writing found its way to blogging. I used to write regularly, sharing random epiphanies from my mundane routines. I wasn't shackled by character limits or cared if I sounded stupid. As a matter of fact, I look back and cringe at some of the things I wrote, having not lived long enough to know better. But I'm glad I shared my thoughts. It constantly reminds me that as I've grown, others can too. It was far easier then, though, growing while blogging, without the loss of nuance from short bursts of text.

Blogging provided me opportunities, and eventually led me to believe I could write my own books.

I built slow, fulfilling connections with each email I received from friends and strangers relating to whatever it is I wrote. 

Patient people guided me to the right conclusions, because I didn't write for my ego, but wrote for my soul.

I missed that so much.

But I'm returning to my sandbox. 

I hope you'll follow along wherever the words lead.