How many times do I have to tell myself I am a writer, before I believe it? Secretly, I wrote for years. Why was it secret? I’ll tell you why. I held nothing back. I shared my dreams and fears. Everything I could not articulate clearly, I pondered and began to wield the pen. In some ways writing has been salvation. I am sure it kept me from more destructive vices. Blank paper received my tears through the years, absorbed the anger that flowed through the stylus. Until the pen became the vehicle God used to reveal himself to me. Ugliness and beauty, intermingled across pages in time. Journals stacked high. A hidden life, a secret life. Poems, words, thoughts, reflections found their way to my pages. Until one day at a writer’s group, I was challenged to read aloud. Voice shaking, throat closing, bravery squeezed right out of my being…I stood. Painful as it was, I gave voice to those words. It took everything to keep from fleeing into the shadows. But I stood, I read. Then I sat down. Never will I look back. Yes, I am a writer. He has assured me, I am His and I will write it, girl. Yes, I will!
Glad to be a part of this community!