Writing is my life. I said that less than a year ago in an insane moment. Though going suicidal was insane, that statement was not. Writing is a life force. I could not live without it. It is my form of communication, of thinking, of creativity.
   Most people use oral communication as their predominant form of communication. I cannot do so. I cannot just voice my thoughts out loud without sounding repetitive and stupid. I cannot grab a point and think it through, hitting all the bases that may be important to either the conversation or the discussion/debate. I rush; I grab a hold of one aspect of the thing and repeat it a million times over, not getting any further and keeping going until someone tells me to shut up.
   Writing is different. I do not get stuck. I can see all the pieces of the puzzle and put them together to form the image. There’s just something magical about it. What comes out of the mouth as stuttered, loose-ended comments can be explained in full detail when the pen hits the paper. Gone are the different views clogging up the brain so that only one comes out. Out flow answers to each question, each comment, thought out and detailed in such a way that I’ll never be able to achieve with my physical voice.
   Thoughts in the brain need out. They need to be looked at, examined, and explored. They need to be recorded, never to be forgotten, always there when needed. Writing does that for me, to me. It cleans up the mind, gets everything out and organized so that I can store it away and forget about it until it is needed once again. My brain’s too crowded as it is. I’m always worrying about something, always thinking about multiple things at once. I never relax. Writing is a way to separate a little of that and set it aside, so that I don’t go crazier than I already have.
   There’s nothing more sacred to me than my journals and writing in them. I don’t know how I lived before discovering the idea of the journal. They’re the place for me and everything that is me. I have many of them, most started but never finished. At home I have two running, both online: Dev Singer’s Dailies and Dev’s Journal.
    Dev Singer’s Dailies is just that—dailies. There I can record everything that happened during the day. It’s like a friend—a friend who can listen to my day’s story and whining and not be burdened by it. It’s also a form of communication. Anyone with the username and password can look at it and see what’s going on in my life, if they care. Its’ a lot easier to have people go check Dev Singer’s Dailies than it is to tell the same story a million times over.
   Dev’s Journal should probably be renamed Dev’s Place for Recording Thoughts, because that’s what it is. It’s my journal for the personal things that I’m thinking. The content varies, anything from my thoughts on a newspaper article to how I felt upon the death of my cat to suicidal thoughts to worries to analyzing myself. There’s a lot of analyzing myself. Some of what’s in there my parents would kill me for, or at least send me to a counselor. Other things, though, are constructive. They help me to figure out where I stand, what to do, who I am.
   Certain people who hold the right information can access Dev’s Journal. Actually, a lot of people can—those who feel trustworthy enough. They are permitted, invited to see what I am thinking. Sometimes they wander over on their own and sometimes I send them there. When I send them there there’s always some sort of reason; I’d never send someone into my battleground for nothing. Sometimes it pertains to the conversations, sometimes it deals with the person him or herself, or sometimes I feel the need to share my thoughts, like I’ll go crazy unless they’re seen. The journal is also an easy way to tell people things, to confess or just to say the things that are too hard to say otherwise.
    Yes, people do see my journals, and I’m fine with that. I want it. It’s like I’m compelled to show my journals, along with my other writing, to people. Look, people! This is what it’s like! This is what I do, this is what I think! Come; see what it’s like! That’s what I’m screaming, in my own sort of way. This is what it’s like, and I would like to share it with you.
   Those who choose to read my journals, whether out of personal choice or my request, are warned that it is not always going to be pretty. It’s rarely pretty. Life’s not pretty, and I write the truth as I see it. I don’t tend to see the fun, just the suffering. I have been told that my journals are depressing. I suppose they are, but that’s the way that they are. That’s the way I am.
   Nonfiction writing, essays in particular, can be thought of as a magnified version of my journals. Many of my essays—even this essay—could easily be found in a lesser and slightly different form in one of my journals. Each essay and some journal entries could be could be thought of as stories—true stories. It’s taking real life and putting a meaning into it, a purpose, a source of entertainment. It’s a chance to take my life into my own hands and make a lesson out of it, either for myself, for others, or for both.
   Sometimes I need an escape from reality, and writing provides that, too. It’s called fiction. With fiction I can take multiple directions. I often take my experiences and views and drop them into the lap of a fictional character. (“Untitled,” “To Tell or Not to Tell,” “The Midnight Sounds”) From that point I can take it in multiple directions, and either use it to convince myself that I don’t have it as bad as it could be, or use it to gain views from a personality not my own. Or it could just be entertainment to see how someone else could act.
    Fiction isn’t always like that, though. I’ve written myself out of my house twice by now (“Untitled,” “A Walk in the Night”) and have explored things that could never happen to me and are either nothing but imagination (“In Her Shoes,” “A Picture Worth a Thousand Memories,” “A Dragon Pet”) or things that happened in the past (“Years of Terror”). I’ve explored different genres and styles and it’s all just plain fun. I tend to think up random conversations and situations in my head, and fiction is a chance to put them—and my creativity—to the test.
   Writing is magical. No matter what form it comes in, it is a life force. Life for me would not be possible without it, and I am ultimately grateful that it is there for me to turn to.

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