Write words. Write thoughts. Write nuances of life. These are the things that I have recorded since I was fourteen. Every day I sit and have recorded the thoughts that stream through my head, at first immature and then blossoming into what spills out today.
I never thought that I had anything to offer anyone. No talent such as painting, drawing, sewing. All these talents run rampant through my family tree, but they stop here at this branch. It wasn’t until this year, sometime in the spring that God whispered to me that my gift is words. And, that painting something doesn’t always mean you use brushstrokes.
So, now I write with abandon, finally finding the room to breathe. I’ve stopped trying to cram myself into someone else’s mold. The moment I donned the title ‘writer’ was the moment that I felt like I’d come home. I told a friend once when asked why, that I cannot not write. The words swirl and are forced out like life blood spilling. And that is what it is when we write – our life spilling out onto paper for others to read. My words are my love offering to you, whomever you are.