Sometimes I Wish I Weren't A Writer
Sometimes I wish I weren't a writer.
Sometimes...
when I am slaving over reworking passive voice out of my sentences, I wish I was out to lunch with friends, chatting and laughing.
Sometimes...
when I stare out the window of my writing nook and see my scraggly garden, I wish I had time to cultivate flowers as well as words.
Sometimes...
when I sit under the weight of impending deadlines, I wish I could meander through a museum absorbing beauty without the crush of schedule
Sometimes...
when I need to post a blog, or finish a chapter, or edit my submission, I wish I could instead watch a six-hour British drama, sip tea, and practice my accent.
Sometimes...
but...
But I am a writer, and I have to write.
Because...
I wake with words burning in my heart that demand residence on a page.
Because...
the insistent call to write does not require convenience or sacrifice-free existence.
Because...
the stories and characters and conversations need a place to dwell.
Because...
there is no off button for the words rolling in my head, forming and reforming sentences.
Because
the Lord of my life, who is the Word, commands me to proclaim, ascribe, and declare His wonder and beauty, whether I feel fit or not.
So I write.
I call myself a writer, regardless of the self-doubt shaking its head at my daring to claim that title.
I will continue to write even if no one reads my word or notices my posts or pays me a cent.
Because I am a writer.
What burns on your heart to do, regardless of the sacrifice it requires? Put it in the comments below. I would love to hear about it!