Mine is perhaps a more sensitive soul than I care to let on, and my skin thinner than it should be…
So of course, I’m drawn to that form of creative expression called “writing,” where people aren’t afraid to tell me what they think of my words, and thus me.
I grew up with rejection after rejection, whether via my parents’ divorce, or bullying at school… Thus I don’t handle rejection well:
So of course, my soul is drawn to writing, where rejection can be a daily reality.
I’m often wracked with self-doubt, wondering if what I say, or write, even matters… (Though I not-so-secretly crave the affirmation of “real” writers).
Yet I continue to write, pressing through the “resistance”–the doubt, the fears, the pain that seek to keep fingers from keyboard–because like Eric Liddell running, I feel God’s pleasure when writing.
I’ve had both successes, and setbacks, on this road called “writing.”
But God help me, I can do no other: I can’t not write!
Sure, I have a job that pays the bills–which I’m thankful for–but it doesn’t feed my soul. The most alive I feel is when I get lost inside the words, and time stands still.
I am a writer. I can do no other.