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On Writing

I love writing. Both the good parts and bad. I love how hard it is to put down word after word and how exciting it is when words click together in my brain. I love how embarrassed I get when people ask me what I do for a living, because in my heart, I write. I’m a writer. I write for a living. Not for money but to live, to thrive, to feel, to be every kind of verb there is because I want to write them all.

A day without writing is a day when I’m lost. I forget who I am and become someone else. Someone I don’t like. Someone who isn’t real. Someone who shines but never glows. Dull. Silent. An undead creature hungering for more money, more accolades, more likes, more comments, more views.

Write something. Write anything. Each time I write, life moves forward one thousand words at a time. Each paragraph a footprint to mark who I used to be. Each page to mark where I came from. Each chapter to mark how far I’ve come.

I love writing because it’s easy. I love writing because it’s hard. It’s verbal diarrhea and constipation and binging and purging and it can’t be healthy but maybe it is because if I didn’t write, didn’t write anything at all, I wouldn’t be here anymore.

Source: Image by djgary (cc)

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