“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear. My courage is reborn.” ~ Anne Frank
I longed to be a writer the way some women long to be a wife or mother.
I married my writing without even realizing it. There was no ceremony or announcement, just deep commitment and the cherishing.
Writing is my friend, confidante, and if I dare say, a sensual lover. She aligns me with my purpose.
Writing awakens my higher self to reveal my scary, funny, sad, shameful, passionate truth.
Writing connects me with my tribe and family of weirdoes and misfits.
This gift and joy paved my path since 3rd grade Friday afternoon workshops left me alone and happy under a sign that read Creative Writing.
Writing serves as my bridge across difficult and wonderful relationships and life decisions, encouraging me in a way that my verbal voice only aspires to.
Writing coaxed me through two divorces and too many loved ones’ deaths.
Writing’s my nonnegotiable necessity.
Men come and go, but with writing, I find faith and forgiveness, especially of my own errors, which, were I not to go to the page, I might never recognize.
Writing is essential to my growth and maturity.
For years, I treated her like a luxury for special people and occasions.
Yet, I treasure the writing process: morning pages that may never produce anything publishable, poems just because, and letters that need to be written, like the one I wrote my father forgiving him for not being he’d like to have been.
Writing heals. It’s divinely cathartic.
Once written, I read and relish my writer’s voice, recognizing its uniqueness.
Writing inserts purpose and agenda into my daily life, serving as my clear and commanding calling.
After treating it like a trinket through my 20s, 30s, and too far into my 40s, now any inkling of turning away is replaced by an indomitable spirit within me screaming NO! I will not sell out. I will not get sidetracked.
It’s not, “I will never go hungry again!” It’s even if I must go hungry.
Nothing feeds my soul the way writing does.
It’s easy to be distracted in this world. In the past, I set writing aside to chase money, career, security, and even men who claimed to support, but compared my writing to hunting, like a hobby.
My writing is not a choice. Teaching or selling? That’s a choice. Staying married or not? A choice. Living in Santa Fe or St. Paul? Another choice.
For me, in this chapter of my life, writing is a decision made.
I either own my writing and offer it to the world or to wear regret like a tattoo. I hate tattoos.