I do not recall ever choosing to be a writer. It is just something I have done to express myself ever since I can remember. It is more like writing chose me.
When I was growing up, I used writing to console myself and have done so for years. Writing comforts and lends support to me; I cannot live without it.
I write more now than I ever have. And by doing so, I have come to understand old stereotypes of the heavy-drinking writer since my most compelling material always seems to put me on the edge. No wonder writers are notorious for drinking, so they can step back before they jump!
Writing is certainly a wild ride and not always an easy one. The perfectionist in me keeps me tethered to unrelenting questions about the craft and trying to figure out the challenges of social media. (She can be a real bitch when she wants to be.) But I do rely on her for proofreading and she makes me try.
She always makes me try.
Yes, underneath all the havoc she wreaks in my life, she is the voice of my creativity, my passion, and my open heart. She heals me with words when I am deep in meditation, reflective in nature, or prone on my yoga mat. She encourages me to express my feminine energy which keeps me sane and happy. And she reveals a silver lining in almost everything I see.
She is shimmering gold leaves in the autumn even though everything is dying.
She is stark white birch trees in the winter in spite of the hardships of the season.
She is moonlit skies on a warm spring morning, reminding me of the cycle of life through the constant birth and death of stars.
She is jet-black clouds heavy with rain in the summertime, proving that storms can be beautiful too.
And when her tears flow; when I am overwhelmed with honest, raw emotion, they trickle onward. And it is onward I will go.
May I continue to write her well.