Well, this realization didn’t come right away. It started with one that changed my life in such a deep way, I can only equate it with a born-again experience. First, I am a writer because I write. No one, not an agent, a publisher, a teacher, a friend, can validate my work. I am a writer because the muse called me to create, to paint imaginations with words. To string words into sentences into paragraphs into chapters that activate minds into a beautiful story. No one can take that away from me, and no one can validate it, because it simply is. Because I write.
I write because it brings me life. If makes my heart sing. It grounds me on days when all I want to do is stick my head in the sand. On days when I feel like the world is against me. On days when I wonder why I ever got out of bed. I love words. I love the way they tumble out of my mind, through my fingers and come alive on the keyboard. This is my art. The computer screen my medium. And no one can make that better or truer for me than it already is.
Writing helps me work out my deepest fears, my hugest sorrows, it is a friend on days when I’m lonely or depressed. Words. They come to me at the most inopportune moments, they play through my mind with a sunset, a flock of birds taking flight, an overheard tidbit of conversation. Words help make the most mundane thing beautiful. They helped me escape, for hours at a time, one of the hardest periods in my life. They mend broken hearts, and inspire new levels of consciousness.
This is writing.
I say I am a writer, and if you put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, you are too. Life is about fun and adventure and risk and arms wide open. So here’s to our adventure in writing, where ever that may take us.