Upon reading several author’s quotes about writing, I find they all say basically the same thing: Writing is a job, just like any other. It takes commitment and dedication and must be worked at every day.
I’ve wanted to be a writer all my life. In my younger years I was constantly writing something – I didn’t know how not to write. When my children were born I wrote them Seuss-ical stories that enraptured them and they would beg to hear my musings over and over again. During the 16-year course of a violent marriage, my passion for writing diminished and apparently died. I no longer told my children I wanted to be a writer. I told them I used to want to be one.
I’m fast approaching 2 years of freedom and I’ve done a lot of growing in that time. To flourish and continue healing I’ve had to do tremendous amounts of digging in my past. You already know where I’m going with this. While unearthing myself I raked over a coal, barely smouldering, but still hot enough to be reignited with a bit of attention. I blew the oxygen of possibility over my little coal and it flared. I yearned to feel the heat from that fire again, but just feeding it with kind of’s and maybe’s and someday’s began to smother the tiny burgeoning flame. I believe God wanted me to understand that my passion was still there, but it wasn’t ready to be reignited until I’d progressed a bit more in my healing. Had I committed a year ago to regularly writing my blog, my words would have been angry and bitter and would have had the potential to cause more harm than good.
Recently I realized I was finally ready, so I brought forth that still-smouldering coal and learned how to add time, patience, wisdom, dedication, and need to bring that flame roaring back to life. The more of myself I feed it, the more it consumes me.
Reality check: I’m 42. Most of my life I’ve said I wanted to be a writer. Time to do it.