I am a writer.
There, I said it. I'm glad to get that load off my conscience.
Take this declaration how you will. You may see it as a statement of fact. Afterall, there is only one thing that qualifies you as a writer; you write.
This bold admission, however, may represent a much larger issue. For example, do you ever feel you are going through life not knowing quite who you are or what you should do? That may be me. I'm just saying. So, my statement of fact may actuallly be a disclosure of a deeply engrained addiction that has not manifested itself until now. Mabe, just maybe, I'm crying for help. Crying for help before I jump off the cliff into the frigid waters of a writer's world. Then again, perhaps I've finally found me. I've finally stumbled into myself.
By making this statement I am NOT saying I am the next Stephen King, James Patterson, J.K. Rowling or (heaven forbid) Stephanie Meyer. Then again, I may be just that. I figure I owe it to myself to find out. The truth is this: I desire to write in order to find more meaning in my life. Whether anyone ever reads this blog isn't at all important to me. In fact, I highly doubt anyone will read this blog except for myself and maybe (if I'm insanely lucky) a few family members and friends. I simply feel there is something therapeutic, almost spiritual, to the process of letting your wounds bleed onto the paper or the computer screen.
My fears are twofold when it comes to this venture. My first fear is that I will fail. I don't know how failure looks in this regard, but my mind and heart tell me it is lurking there. My second fear, and the greater of the two, is that I will succeed. What in the world will happen if I succeed? I must push through these fears. I need to find out.
So, I will write. I will write like my life and, indeed, the very world depend on it. Possibly they do. With all the writers out there pounding out their prose day by day I'm hoping and praying there may be room for just one more. One more writer like me.
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