a true romantic is always writing

I once read that a “true romantic is always writing.” Poetry, novels, blogs— you name it. Writing aids in romanticizing one’s life. It makes the mundane magnificent and helps spark joy during tasks that may otherwise be daunting.

Since I could write, I’ve journaled nearly every day. I’ve had books big and small, plain and sequin-covered— virtually any diary you can imagine. If I looked in my childhood keepsake bin, I could easily retrieve an arm’s full of notebooks— enough to need help carrying them all.

I’ve written about it all: happiness, grief, excitement, and more. At one point, I even created my own secret language, to which my 1st-grade English teacher wrote, “Oh! I don’t think I know this language,” in my free-writing journal.

And, in all of this writing, I know that without writing, there wouldn’t even be the possibility of my being a “romantic.”

The simple act of touching my pen to paper is an absolution of the negative thoughts that plague my mind on a day-to-day basis.

In dissolving the defeatist mentality, one can look to the positives in their life, although the negatives still exist. They will pay all the more attention to the flowers blooming come spring, the sound of the birds chirping at dawn, and the way the dewdrops lie on the grass blades after a chilly fall night.

When I went to the University of Vermont my freshman year of college, in a place with the most beautiful landscape— mountains, lakes, and beaches— I was sad. I had the most amazing friends and didn’t even feel homesick despite it being my first time living far from home (or away from home in general), but at times, I still felt down.

To return to my even-keeled state, per usual, I picked up my trusty journal. Bound in a faux brown leather with white embroidered flowers and feathers, that notebook put things back into perspective for me.

Although I knew, at this point, that Vermont was not the school for me, I was able to find peace and cherish the rest of my time there. As I ran through more ink, marking up my book’s pages, I went to more concerts, hiked more mountains, and truly valued living in the valley.

As many of you know, I did not stay in Vermont. But that does not go to show that my time in Vermont was a waste.

I loved Vermont.

I loved my friends.

I loved my long walks to class.

And, my writing exacerbated this positive perspective.

I’ve always loved writing, and I always will.

To write is often to romanticize, expunging the dreary, lifting a weight off one’s shoulders.

So, for as long as I am me, I will be a writer.

Celia <3