The thing about being a writer or, rather, the thing about writing words on a page and living a life where you are continuously observing patterns, thoughts, movements of people, circumstance, and – of course – words, is that you don’t necessarily realize that your entire way of being surrounds this being a writer thing.
You see, there’s an internal knowing held within a writer that is difficult to pinpoint and even more challenging to explain, but it is certainly there. I also don’t know if it’s a concept I can extrapolate, evaluate, or reverse engineer… but it is there. It’s like a faint, yet vital, mark on the soul.
You see, I think being a writer, or feeling as if one identifies with living as one of these mythical, slightly senseless creatures, is that you must do the writing.
Although I’ve stated that writers (and likely all creators, for that matter) feel this sense that they must write, it wasn’t until I reflected for a moment today that I realized how intensely this truth reveals its nature. You see, I didn’t realize how much I write. I didn’t grasp or intellectualize the extent to which this presents itself throughout every aspect of my life. What I've come to understand is that I’m writing all the time… and not just in the intentional time set aside in my sacred writing spaces, but in the little, almost miss-able moments throughout each day.
Whether it’s on the pages of the little red book I carry in my purse or the notes on my Huawei or on the reMarkable device that’s almost always in my bag or on the ruffled pages of one of my fifteen coiled partners in crime or on Post-it notes that I quickly stuff in my pocket or on pieces of loose leaf that I carefully place in my jacket or in Tweets or Instagram posts or texts to myself… I just can’t stop myself.
This incessant need to purge the words has been snowballing for years. No day goes by that I miss putting pen to paper or fingers to keys. I’ve tried to put an end to this beautiful addiction, but it’s got the best of me.
I remember that first time… that first story when I was six. I suppose there’s no going back now. There’s no patch or therapy strong enough. The mere essence of trying to disidentify from being a “writer” (or even from the words) will never succeed. Like a drug, they’ve got me.
The truest of truths is that they’ve only made me better… made me more… made me less… made me closer to God and that which I was created to be. You see, I’ve realized only now that I am the words, and they are me. For better or for worse, it is true. For this life, this will always be.