I've accepted my fate; I'm a writer.

I can’t say for certain when I knew I was a writer, just that the desire was always there.


Though I know it originated earlier, I can remember the need starting to emerge as an angsty teen turning unsorted emotions into prose. It nagged at me when I all but forgot it, living the homemaker life. It persisted when I turned to drinking and partying while working as a bartender. And it returned when I took the leap toward a career in journalism.



Now, though I don’t know where it came from, I know it’s here to stay. That desire, that urge, that innate hunger to put thought to paper is very much a part of me. I've accepted my fate; I'm a writer for life.


Roadblocks pop up threatening to throw me off but I’m more determined than ever to stay the course. It’s not easy. Sometimes, it’s the hardest thing in the world to stare at a blank page trying to will creativity to flow. Working at a weekly newspaper taught me to push through the block – it was the exact lesson I needed.


It’s hard – but all the best things are.


I’m not a naturally talented writer. I think the thing that held me back the longest was expecting everything I wrote to be incredible. If I couldn’t write well right off the bat what was the point. The fear, embarrassment and expectations dampened my drive.


I was doing it for the wrong reasons. I wanted to be a writer, but I was never writing.


So, now I write. And so much of what I write is bad. It’s so incredibly bad I get angry, shut my laptop and walk away. And walking away is really all I need.


It’s so important to give your writing some space. Let it sit and stew in all its unrefined hideousness – and then come back.


That is where my love for editing took root. I once looked at revisions as the enemy but now I know it very much goes hand in hand with writing. After learning that, my love for the craft grew.


As any one of you reading this knows, not everything I write is great. Still, I struggle with confidence and fear the reactions. What I am creating could simply be mediocre; some of it is bound to be. But I’m not going to let that slow me down.


I honestly don’t know where this love for writing will take me. I don’t know what career is next, or which direction I’m supposed to take. I will keep honing my craft and working toward my goals. (Which are my secret for now - can't give it all away.)


But I know I’m drawn to bleeding on paper and I intend to keep letting it all out – I’m not about to let a lifelong impulse fade to nothing because it gets hard from time to time.

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