I was born a writer

No one can pull anyone back from anywhere. You save yourself or you remain unsaved. - Alice Seabold

I started this entry with a quote from a book I read because in essence, its words I have started to try to live by. I used to think everyone would help me get where I want and it wasn’t until recently that I realized they won’t. I have to save myself…this relates to my writing a lot because of several reasons.

I was born a writer, but have come to grips with the fact that I may not be a good writer. Or maybe to me, I am not a good writer because I read others’ work and I’m in awe at the amazing talent and free flow some people have. It’s almost like what they do is effortless. Take my friend Jess for example. I could read anything she wrote, even if it was direction on how to make mince meat pie. It’s how she writes that amazes me. It’s the humor in it. I wish I had her talent.

Or John for another example, I didn’t think of him as much of a writer but I had the pleasure and honor of reading some things he wrote the other day and I was amazed at his ability to be the words. I could almost feel the emotions that were spilled into his words. It seemed so natural; the feelings were clearly scrawled out before me.

I know that writing will be something that will be a learning process for me for as long as I continue to do so. And as long as I continue to read and write, the better I will be. I know that I will have to seek the advice of others and take their constructive feed back without getting so down when they do, because it will only make me a stronger writer.

I may not be good, but what I love about my writing and about me is that I write not because it’s something to do, but because it’s who I am. I was born a writer. Its almost as though ink flows through my veins.

Writing through Time

Used to scribble stories,
Crayola colors were the tool
That blended colors on the page.
My chubby fingers held the power
Of my complicated mind.

And as I grew older
The pictures became words,
That transcribed the way I felt.
And the writing held the power,
Of a darker broken heart

But what happens when,
I can’t find the words;
To articulate the thoughts
Is it a loss of my existence?
Or a smoke screen in my head.
-The Graffito