I always knew I was meant to write. For who, that’s still sort of TBD.
There’s a certain fire that ignites inside of me when I get the itch to write…the kind that makes me stay awake most hours of the night in thought, pondering the shoulda woulda coulda scenarios of my life and wondering what will be in the future.
It’s the kind of fire that makes you think deep, like really deep. A digging into the depths of your soul sort of deep. Writing is expression, it’s an out to words that don’t verbally flow as smoothly or naturally. For me, it’s a platform. I’ve held back far too long.
Sometimes at night, I’ll pop up from my bed and jot down notes of things I want to write about in my iPhone notepad (with one eye open – only normal being I’m half asleep at this point), hoping I’ll have time to continue that thought at a later time, which rarely ever comes to fruition. Like now. 12:16am.
I knew I was meant to write from the day I submitted poems in middle school that were published into a large poetry book. They had asked me to come read the poem aloud from the book but too shy, I turned down the opportunity. I sometimes think back and wonder what would’ve happened if I pursued it.
I knew I was meant to write when in high school, the teachers would use my essays an examples in front the whole class. I’d feel myself turning beat red on the outside but inside…well, inside it felt good to be praised.
I knew I was meant to write from the days when I would write my Dad poems in jail. My Mom would mail them for me via snail mail (yes snail mail was and still exists people). That’s a story for another time.
I knew I was meant to write when I’d play certain songs over and over again repeating the lyrics in my head to figure out what story they were telling with their words. It always intrigued my how artists could piece words together so beautifully but then sound even more harmonious verbally as they recited their own lyrics.
I knew (but now I know) with certainty that it’s my time to write. About all things. My life. My kids. My recipes. For you, for anyone who wants to read it.
My voice on paper is infinite, endless thoughts in my mind. Here I am, it’s my time to let it all out.