At some point or another, all aspiring writers are told that it’s a less than glamorous life, and that we will face countless rejections over the course of their lifetime. We are told it is very difficult to make a living as a writer, and if we do manage to pull it off, there isn’t much money involved– because J.K Rowling is the exception, not the rule.
We create blogs and participate in National Novel Writing Month. We slave over drafts and try our best to silence our inner critic. We research self-publishing and agents and wonder how we will ever be heard when so many people are waiting for the same thing. We take our words and submit and submit and submit until we finally see our name in print.
We keep writing.
And we wait.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Knowing all this, it’s a wonder I still write at all. It would be much, much easier if I had chosen a different path.
But that’s just it, isn’t it?
In many ways, writing chose me.
I love words. I love how I write faster when I get excited about an idea, and how my handwriting becomes more and more unreadable. I love the click-clack of my keyboard and listening to my writing playlist. I love my Scrivener outlines. I love writing so late at night that I’m the only one awake. I love stories, because when you get to the heart of a fairy tale, it’s just another way to tell the truth.
I write because I can’t imagine doing anything else and still feeling so unbelievably happy.
I write because I can’t imagine doing anything else when my heart is hurting.
I write because I believe God hears prayers, but He also reads letters.
I write because I don’t want people like me to feel so alone.
I write because it’s fun.
I write because it’s therapeutic.
I write because sometimes it’s the only thing that feels effortless, and sometimes I’ve never worked harder on anything in my life.
I write because the world can never have enough books.
I write because I have something to say.
I write because it’s who I am.
I won’t ever stop.