It’s been almost three years since my dad passed away from colon cancer. Yesterday was the first time that I wrote about it. I started writing in my journal, and the story started coming and so did the tears. And, I kept writing.
Writing is exciting. It’s thought-provoking and challenging. It’s insighful. It’s freeing. It’s made me laugh, and yes, of course, made me cry. But, when I think of writing, I don’t think that I need to sit down and write because it’s fun. I’ve never associated it with fun. I’ve associated it with joy – writing brings me great joy. But, joy and fun are different.
I was joyful, when I finished writing and crying yesterday, to know that I could write about it, to pay homage to my dad, and it gave me ideas of how I could write in order to honor his memory. I have joy when I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). But, it’s not a barrel of laughs – it’s not giggles and warm fuzzies.
I am not sure what to think when I encounter people who think writing is fun. I understand the happiness, the satisfaction. I understand feeling a sense of accomplishment – of giving birth to ideas and expression.
Writing is pleasurable. Writing is painful.
Fun just seems to not be enough. Writing is overflowing, off the edge, outside the lines, in the margins, permeating everything. Fun isn’t adequate enough for what writing does.