They say to be a good writer, I must write every day, regardless if I want to or not. They say it separates the hobbyists from the skilled workers. The professionals from the amateurs. The women from the girls.
I do write every day. In my journal. All-day long. I scribble thoughts, then a bit of overheard conversation, a line from a book, a lyric that touched my soul. I must examine later why it touched my soul.
I write with purpose, it is my lifeblood, but I do not write to publish. And when faced with the arduous task of writing to publish, it gets sticky, like glue covers my mind and words. I don’t know what to write. My grammar sounds off and awkward, and who would want to read any of this anyhow? Those kinds of thoughts march through my head, one by one. Like the ants on the sidewalk that I dodged on my morning walk. The red ones.
I will change, I tell myself. I will let down these thick, protective walls and publish the damn thing. How hard can it be to tap a little icon? Tap it. It can be tough when that icon reads, publish now. Then you expose a very you, and a very true side of you, to the world.
I’ve lived long enough to know that most people don’t care. Selfish creatures we are, occupied with own our lives. Let’s face it – it should be that way. Today on Dr. Wayne Dyer’s podcast, a woman asked, “what is the greatest thing we can do to help others?” He replied: live your life fully and be a role model.
So, it is normal and healthy to be busy with ourselves. In living free, we set others free. In loving ourselves, we love others. But we also desire the best for those around us, and we are willing to serve in whatever capacity we can. We live free, and we ask, how can I serve?
But back to the daily grind, the daily writing, a daily outlet of servitude. Why must, at times, it feel like a chore, and at other times feel like I have reached the pinnacle, where my gifts and callings collide within me. I do not like this ride.
Writing is a treacherous and dangerous thing. It is annoying and disturbing and sometimes dark, yet, it seems to bring light to the world. And reason out of chaos. And shape nations, minds, and moments.
Turn on a song, would you, and get lost in the lyrics. A writer did that. Most likely a poet. A human who sat at their keyboard and went deep within to find the right words. They proclaimed: today I am a skilled worker – not a hobbyist, a professional – not an amateur, a woman – not a girl. Today, I am a writer.