I was talking to some friends today about my blog. They have been very supportive and encouraging, which really inspires me to continue this journey of my recently rekindled love for language. I have always had a passion for words, but now my passion has gone from glowing embers to a roaring blaze. One of the girls was unaware of my blog, and when she asked if I was a writer, I responded without hesitation – yes.
That was the first time in my life I have felt worthy of being able to call myself a writer and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. I have always responded to similar questions with varied responses. “Oh, I write poetry” or “I’ve written a couple of short stories”, but never have I felt enough ownership of my talent to be able to claim that I am a writer. Today was the turning point in that constant battle in my head. I am a writer, and I’m proud to finally be able to admit that.
After years of searching for what truly makes me happy, I finally decided what I want to be when I grow up. Okay, so I’m 43 years old, but I still feel like I have a lot of growing to do, not only as a writer, but as a person. But I want to write. I feel that fire coursing through my veins more and more and the urge to string sentences together into paragraphs fraught with meaning is overwhelming. Ideas churn in my brain during the conscious hours of my day and random dreams diffuse themselves into plot lines when my eyelids flutter open to watch the new crest of the sun greet the horizon.
My dream is quickly becoming more of a reality because I am allowing myself to believe that I can achieve the possible. Embrace what it is that truly makes you feel complete. If you keep your dreams alive, you can still chase them.