About a month ago, I was referred to on another website as a “blogger”. Oh pish posh, I thought, I’m not a Blogger. That sounds kind of serious, like some kind of commitment to have something to say, all the time… I’m just fooling around a little…
And then, a few days later, it hit me. Holy fuck. I’m a writer.
Every day I write. I can’t stop. I wake up in the middle of the night composing sentences, and I speak these sentences in my head, as I lay in bed, staring into the dark. I have a voice, and I have a hundred stories to tell. Sometimes I think if I can’t write, I will implode. These stories and sentences will become heavy and dark as they melt together into a mass of tangled words that will never come out.
When I sit down to write, I go into my head and pull out one of these sentences. I watch, as it appears in front of me, like a magic trick that only I know. I choose the words, the rhythm, the flow. My power is in words, and these words are gloriously mine.
When I was a young girl, there were things I knew, without ever being told. I knew that there was so much more to me than anyone thought. I stayed quiet and good in the world, even as I was screaming in my head that I had something to say. I knew I had a voice, hidden underneath all of the rules and restrictions and expectations of a false perfection that had been assigned to me.
Today is my declaration of intention. I’m a writer. And writers write. I’m not afraid of it any more.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~Ernest Hemingway