Open Book

I recently read a Blog post about writing. It discussed how as writers we aren’t supposed to make excuses for “not having time” to dedicate to our passion. Furthermore, we should push through those moments of excuses and instead propel forward to produce even a small something.

I decided to inventory myself. Am I a writer? Am I “in it to win it” or satisfied with settling? And why do I write? What draws me to use words rather than voice, when frankly the latter is generally less time-consuming. How was the writer in me born?

I was the youngest member added to a family possessing a great deal of drama. It prevailed decades before I breathed air. As a result, I was spared personal accountability, yet was still involved. Intermittently it was major and I had no choice but to suffer the effects. Periodically it was minimal so I was happy to pretend it didn’t exist. I matured quickly in these surroundings. I was basically an only child and fought hard for recognition by both my parents and my older siblings. I played a few sports and enjoyed small parts in drama club productions. I was active in chorus and talent shows and show choir. I got a job. I attended college. However, my successes weighed me down to an extent. There was always something else going on at the same time. I never felt I had a spotlight. To ease my dilemma I scrawled fictional stories.

At one point in my early teens I was lost. Very lost. In an English class we received a lesson on poetry. My teacher was incredible and her instruction piqued my interest. There was so much going on inside me, never mind around me, and this genre helped restore my temperament. I wrote poems for every occurrence; at school or work, when I was happy or sad. I administered few, but the ability to recall helped remind me where I had been to how I’d grown.

In a high school creative writing class my eyes were further opened. I learned about the “person” perspective. In this room I penned my inaugural “first person” tale; one describing my perception about living in my family. My teacher was moved to tears and my fellow peers awestruck by what I’d confided. Although I wrote additional pieces in second and in third person, the aforementioned was where my heart fluttered.

After years of pen to paper, I found the chapter by which to build my climax. I discovered my drive and the purpose for my passion. Opening up was a platform granting me permission for my sentiments. For so long I’d kept inside what I didn’t think was alright to bear. Suddenly, I wasn’t scared and worried little about judgement. I was free to be myself. I felt brave and strong. I still feel that way today.

The inviting portion for me is constructing sentences to match circumstances. To mirror vision and offer insight. I feel sheer exhilaration as soon as an idea strikes, compelling me to expand. I answer the call whenever I hear it, even if I’m unable to publicize immediately. My inspirations are drawn from situations I’ve witnessed or questions I seek to resolve. I compose with my soul, utilizing every ounce of my being. I broach tough subjects and periods during my life where I’ve endured extreme doubt and struggle. From time to time I’m met with backlash. As a younger me, I took this personally. As time has elapsed I’ve learned not to. No one will understand or appreciate every element I attempt. That’s part of being a writer, though. Like everyone, we have good moments and not so good moments.

In college I walked onto campus as a Journalism major. I was prepared to take on the world. By the culmination of my first semester, I realized this was not my career path. I had no yearning to cover popular features or be sent on an excursion I lacked connection to. Instead I coveted the flow of my own personal juices. There was a lot which made me tick. I simply hadn’t yet figured out how to bring it to fruition. Thus, I set aside my love for writing for a long time. Until I became a mother, gathered several life lessons, and accumulated a bit of wisdom.

I currently write to experiment, to broaden my horizons and to illustrate conditions. My enthusiasm surrounds doing what I love and, eventually, supplementing my income by such means. For anyone who grapples over choosing employment over empowerment, here’s my suggestion: Money is a necessity. It feeds us and shelters us and clothes us. A job is essential to support our livelihood. But remember balance also plays a role. We can work every single day, yet if we never truly live, did our efforts matter? Find your affection and run with it. Or write with it.

 

 

 

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