Monday, March 21, 2022

I am a writer.

I was afraid that I had forgotten how to write because I haven’t written for myself in nearly three years.




I resent that I inadvertently validated the opinions of those who don’t understand and see my writing merely as a “little job.” But truthfully, there’s nothing little about a discipline we perpetually depend on and actively use.

Somebody writes those newspaper articles we read and newscasts we watch to keep up with what happens locally, nationally and globally.

Someone writes those books and magazine articles we peruse for leisure on lazy Saturday afternoons.

Someone pens those sentimental messages inside greeting cards.

Somebody writes those instruction manuals that accompany our household appliances, electronics, furnishings and vehicles we build and operate.

Somebody puts words on sheets for the tunes we bop and twerk to on Friday and Saturday nights and the music we worship to on Sundays.

Somebody(s) wrote the scriptures in the good Bible we apply to our daily lives.

Words matter. They’re meaningful. They’re moving.

They’re weaved together by writers.

It's real work.

I think I’m more disappointed that I allowed myself to be continually pulled into so many random directions that I’ve dishonored not only my craft but also my whole self.

I often wonder where I'd be today had I pursued my own bliss.

I’m pissed that I invested a separate 10,000+ expert hours into tasks that, deep down, I really didn’t give a fuck about. They didn’t add to my joy – in fact, they created unnecessary grief – or fulfill my purpose. Those hours could’ve been applied to the projects that are eager to escape my brain and temporarily live on my computer screen until they reach their final destinations.

God didn’t put me here to be everyone’s resident servant or robot.

My talent is not “small.”

It’s not limited to random jobs and careers that others try to impose on me.

I’m nobody’s puppet, peon or pet.

I am an actual writer.

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