To be a writer was always my dream, even before I knew what it would be like or what it meant to call myself that. I remember the first time I wrote a paragraph using well chosen adjectives to set the scene in a story, it was the sixth grade. My teacher complimented me and suddenly, I could see myself as a writer. I found blogging rather by accident, hoping to find a way to encourage regular writing at a time in my life when I had more to say than I had minutes to say it.
I’ve often wondered why I keep doing this, when the loudness of these tiny people swirls around me, snatching away my words before I can record them. Yet, stopping feels like putting a hand in front of a well spring. If I don’t let the words out, they may eat me from the inside, bouncing back and forth between neurons until something snaps. I may not be the kind of success I want to or attain the excellence I aspire to, but I’ll keep going anyway.
Sometimes when I write, I feel his pleasure, In sentences too fine to entirely be of my own making, or creatively crafted phrases that produce wonder in my soul. I don’t expect my audience to necessarily see or feel it, that is too audacious to even hope, but it reminds me that I am no accident. These traits in me are purposeful and strategic. I cannot shut that part of me away and remain whole, but I can channel it and develop it and look for opportunities to be useful.
So I lay out my words, simple as they may be and pray they bring hope to others. Because without them, I’m not sure I’d be me.