Welcome

I'm reluctant to write these words.

However, they seem to leave me no choice. 

I'm held hostage, compelled by a force I can't ignore...it's handing me cue cards right this minute.

You've not wandered into the creative space of a bright-eyed dreamer. It's obligation, not passion, driving me.

If there's a part of me that enjoys this, it matters little. Even on days where I loathed the sight of pen and paper, I wrote in the walls of my mind. I'm imprisoned by free verse in perpetuity.

Cut my hands off if you'd like, I'm still going to write. Be it with tears staining a pillowcase or toes drawing patterns on the beach sand.

For so long I yearned to be a writer. What I didn't realize is that the "recognized" was silent. Why else would I long for something I was already doing?

I wanted to be an author people would recognize on the street. I mean, you really loved an author if you knew their face.

But when I think of the greats, Sylvia Plath, Oscar Wilde, Mary Oliver, John Keats...it's not their face we remember and admire. 

It's their words.

I need to write, it's why I'm here (I'm pretty sure).

But I don't want to be a writer anymore. 

I'm a writer right now.