Yes. I am. I write the words on my mind and the feelings of my heart. It’s what I have always done. I am a writer. I have been hiding from my gift — for what? Fear. Judgment. Perhaps a deep knowing that it would unlock something I tell myself I am not ready for.
I am a writer. I spend countless hours reading and absorbing other people’s words and yet, don’t believe my own words have any weight or worth. How silly of me. I keep waiting for the day I’m finally satisfied with my words, when in reality I’m just afraid that others never will be.
I am a writer. I spend countless hours reading and absorbing other people’s words and yet, don’t believe my own words have any weight or worth. How silly of me. I keep waiting for the day I’m finally satisfied with my words, when in reality I’m just afraid that others never will be.