It was the literary genius, Anne Lamott, who said, “this business of being a writer is ultimately about asking yourself, ‘How alive am I willing to be?”
Writing has nothing to do with what do I want to say to the world or what is relevant out there, or what is currently selling or what would gain attention and followers and likes and RT’s. Writing anything, for me, is something that comes from a stirring deep inside me. It has to be something that is plaguing me; something that, if I don’t get it out, I won’t sleep well for days.
Writing is my bedside friend.
I always have a notebook and a pen next to my bed, and at any given moment, no matter what time, when I get a thought, I would scribble it down. I would let it out; let it bleed. Most of the things I write I never publish live, but I have to allow my insides to say what they feel.
The last 30 days of writing every day has been a stretch, because time is thin, and taking time out to gather your thoughts into something requires discipline. It requires early mornings and late nights, amidst all the other 20 000 useless things we convince ourselves we HAVE TO do.
But here I am.
I stuck it out.
I did it.
It’s not so much what I wrote or how I wrote it; it’s about the fact that I wrote. It’s about the fact that I participated.
This challenge convinced me to call myself a WRITER, and not hide behind “I’m trying to be”, any longer.
I. Am. A. Writer. And write I shall.
And the journey doesn’t just stop here.
The team from Writersbootcampza just gave me a taste of what it feels like to “be writing”, and not “talk writing”. And “being” something is an ongoing process. It’s perfecting, and trying, and failing, blocking, staring at the blank screen.
But it’s all worth it.
Peace to you.