Recently, I wrote a sentence that connected something inside of me that had been untethered for too long. I said the words out loud, again… and again. I rolled the words off my tongue and into the air with delight. They were words I have been needing to write…maybe for years.
And I realized with a clarity never felt before that this is what I was put on the earth to do. I promised myself I would never go that long without writing again.
There were so many voices I had been fighting:
“Write what you know and only that. Write your thoughts, things you know, the world through your eyes. The world doesn’t need another mysterious, magical boy with a wand. This is real life.”
“No one wants to hear what you know about. Only write fiction. People want to hear good stories. No one cares about your experience. Stories that only exist in a world beyond reach are the words that leap off the page and get the heart going. That’s good writing.”
…And because I ricocheted between those voices for so long — I stopped writing out of fear.
Fear of upsetting or disappointing “the others.” Fear of not knowing what kind of writing suited me best. Fear of failure.
Until the day I realized I was losing my voice.
So I closed the others out and I began to write again and not for anyone else. This time I wrote for me because I know it’s what I am supposed to do.
I will never stop writing. But now I have to be sure to remember to turn the volume down on the noise.
(If you let them, the others will drown out your words until you can’t distinguish your own voice in the crowd among the thousands.)
My voice is only one voice, but it is mine. And I am determined to use my voice for good.
I believe words hold power.
I believe words can change the world.
I believe God works through storytelling and pages and pages of books.
I believe our story is found in the pages.
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