The writer inside of me needed a pep talk today, so this is what I said ...
I dream. I imagine that I live in a world where I can be daring, where I can — without the judgment of others, without asking for outside approval — be myself. It is a world where I can follow my heart’s true desire. It is a world where I can freely do what it is that I want to do and what I feel called to do. It is a world of hope and possibility.
I dream. I imagine that I live in a world where I can be daring, where I can — without the judgment of others, without asking for outside approval — be myself. It is a world where I can follow my heart’s true desire. It is a world where I can freely do what it is that I want to do and what I feel called to do. It is a world of hope and possibility.
I am a writer. I
say that with conviction. It is, today, an affirmation of who I am. I am a
writer. Not because of my novel, Freestyle
Love. Not because of my other published works. I am a writer because there
is, deep within me, a will far greater than my own that compels me to write. It
is a calling. I have chosen to heed the call.
And, so, I
write. I write because each morning when I awake, and at night when I lay my
head down to sleep, writing is what becomes
me. Writing quells within me, gnaws at my heart, enlivens my soul. There is a
surge of adrenaline — like when I dash for the finish line at the end of a race
— when my pen touches the page. Words dance onto the page, laying the
foundation of the stories within me that I long to tell.
I write because
of the beauty that is this world.
Like on Wednesday morning, running along the Martin Goodman Trail by the
lakefront as the sun beamed into my eyes. Each day savouring a bountiful love.
Being told that my four-year-old nephews (twins), filled with excitement,
yelled, “No way!” as they opened the presents I had sent for their birthday. The
blessing of friendships, new and old.
My day is not
complete if I have not put in time at the page. It’s like trying to go through
the day without having a coffee. When I am caffeine-deprived, I am cranky. When
I do not write, or when I don’t write enough, I am irksome and irritable. In a
way, I lose my humanity. That is why each day I show up at the page because if
I don’t I risk losing myself. Writing grounds me in the day, helps me to be
present in the present. Writing, I hang on to myself.
Bouts of
self-criticism come in cycles, causing me to doubt my ability as a writer. And
that’s like doubting who I am. As a writer, the minute my work enters the public
domain, it becomes fair game for the critics — and, by extension, me along with
it. Good or bad, I say to the critics: Bring
it on! I’ve succeeded where a lot of people have not because despite the
letters of rejection (and over the course of my writing career there have been
many and there will be more), despite the good reviews, in spite of the bad
reviews, I have persevered. I have held steadfast to my faith — in my work, in
myself. I have been unwavering in the belief that this is my path. This is the
one thing in my life that I feel compelled to do.
Helen Keller said
it best: “Many persons have a wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It
is not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy
purpose.”
Writing is my worthy purpose.
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