I have always been a thinker, and because of that, a writer. My earliest memories of writing fall around the time I was 8 years old, dragging my Keds lightly through the dirt as I half-swung on the rubber seat of the playhouse equipment in the backyard, pen in hand, clicking and clicking and thinking and writing, all the agonizing details of my charmed small-town life. As an only child, I was enamored with solitude and consumed by my overactive imagination.
And so, I wrote. I think I wrote because my thoughts were non-freaking-stop. I had to get them out and on to paper before they spilled out my eyeballs and shot out my ears. At least if I wrote them down, there they were for constant reference. I had thought them, and I had written them, and I no longer had to keep them inside my swelling brain. And then, voila! Room for more thoughts.
And so this cycle continued into my exhausting adolescence, at which time I began, like so many millienials, writing publicly online. And this journal became my therapy. I wrote about everything. If I read these entries now, I can literally see my teenage self grow up before my eyes. I discovered myself and sorted out my core values. I became vegetarian, and then vegan. I was angry and bitter and heavy with the weight of these new discoveries, and I wanted everyone to know! I wrote obsessively from a place of angsty compassion deep within my heart. My thinking fueled my veganism. My veganism fueled my writing. My writing fueled more thinking.