Sometimes writing flows effortlessly — a river of thoughts, feelings, and images spilling onto the page. Other times, it trickles, hesitant and uncertain, pausing to find direction. But either way, the act of writing remains faithful, showing up in whatever form it takes. That’s the tender and beautifully honest spirit behind Ahava Shira’s reflections in Sometimes I Write — a meditation on the nature of journaling, creativity, and emotional truth.
Shira doesn’t position writing as a structured, rule-bound practice. She invites us into a more organic experience — one rooted in presence, authenticity, and a willingness to follow the words wherever they lead. And perhaps most importantly, she reminds us that even when our writing isn’t “consistent,” that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It just means it’s real.
Writing Without Rules
One of the most powerful ideas in Shira’s piece is the acknowledgment that writing doesn’t always follow a pattern. Even for someone who journals several times a week and spends additional hours at the keyboard, the form and content of what emerges are never entirely predictable. Some days the words come in torrents. Other times, only a single phrase rises to the surface. But every variation is valid. Every form is worthy.
This flexibility invites a deeper kind of honesty — one where writing isn’t about performing or producing, but about tuning into the self. What do I feel right now? What wants to be said — or not said — in this moment? There are no shoulds here. Just trust.
From Pain to Play
The topics that Shira touches in her writing are as varied as the weather — and just as naturally shifting. She writes about difficult relationships and internal struggles, about rituals that bring joy and moments of celebration. One day may be filled with grief; another, with lightness and laughter.
Sometimes a single word can spark a cascade of creativity. Sometimes a memory, a photo, or a snippet of conversation opens the floodgates. And occasionally, what begins as a serious reflection might twist unexpectedly into humor and playfulness — because writing is not a linear journey. It’s a dance between thought and feeling, memory and imagination.
This approach gently dismantles the myth that writing must be polished, purposeful, or even logical. It tells us: let your words wander. Let them be messy, silly, or surprisingly deep. Let them be you.
The Unexpected Challenge of Beauty
One of the most quietly profound insights in Shira’s reflection is this: sometimes writing about pain is easier than writing about beauty. That may sound counterintuitive, but it rings deeply true.
Pain often demands expression — it pushes to the surface, seeking relief or understanding. But beauty? Beauty requires presence. It asks us to slow down, to notice, to feel. To write about the glint of light on the ocean, the serenity of a forest walk, or the softness of a friend’s smile — that can feel vulnerable, even overwhelming.
Still, writing about the lovely things matters just as much as writing about the hard ones. Maybe more so. Because in doing so, we train our hearts to see more clearly. To hold space not just for sorrow, but for joy. To record not just what hurts, but what heals.
Following the Thread
In the end, Shira’s reflections remind us that writing is not a rigid discipline. It’s a living practice — responsive, intuitive, and deeply personal. It doesn’t need to be tidy or even clear. It just needs to be honest.
You don’t have to know where you’re going when you start. You don’t need a theme or a thesis. Sometimes, one word is enough. Sometimes a walk on Roland Road, the hush of a beach at dusk, or a long-forgotten memory is the spark.
And sometimes, there’s no spark at all — just the act of sitting down, opening the page, and trusting that something will come. That’s writing, too.
The Invitation
So if you’re a writer — or someone who’s always wanted to write — take heart. Let go of the rules. Ditch the pressure. And start where you are. With a word, a thought, a feeling. With joy or sorrow, memory or dream.
Let your journal become a companion, not a taskmaster. Let the page hold your uncertainty as tenderly as your truths. And remember, as Shira shows us with grace and warmth: your writing doesn’t have to be consistent. It only has to be yours.
