I Have Always Loved to Write - Dr. B
I unofficially published my first book at 7. It had chapters and advice and mysterious suspense and illustrations and everything. My parents shared it with a few of their nearest and dearest friends. Lo and behold, a couple of years ago, one of those friends mailed me a copy of that book! I now keep a copy in the top drawer of my desk. Intentionally, it is placed there so that I may always be reminded of who I was as a precocious child and as a writer. Every time I look at it, it makes me smile deeply. When I see that first book, I am reminded of that little girl— free and full of life— and I am somehow invigorated and encouraged to keep on keeping on.
I have always loved to write.
So today as I sit here with that first book in hand experiencing all of the emotions that I usually feel when I look at it, I sense something deeper calling me, washing over me, cleansing me of the residue of thoughts and ideas that no longer serve my purpose in this season. Now holding that first book in hand, I accept the strength that emerges through each page challenging me to be real, to be true to myself and to those who depend on my authenticity to stand boldly in their own.
I have always loved to write.
For me, writing was a unique space that I could pour myself out without judgement. My paper and pen were best friends who welcomed me to chat at any hour under any circumstances. Countless journals bore the weight of my endless creative and ever evolving thoughts. Innumerable pads and tablets held my secrets, my joys and sorrows, my pains and visionary birthings. Writing was not just my outlet, it was who listened to me when unspoken thoughts now spoken in print conveyed the depth of my meanderings without fear.
I have always loved to write.
And, writing became a means by which I could express myself to others. It was where my voice emerged in powerful ways. It was an uncommon gift continuously multiplied and amplified in every well-chosen, finely-crafted, just-the-right-word placed sentiment. Every phrase, every line displayed the depth of my heart’s cry in each dispensation of my unfolding story. A valued treasure of a gift writing was. A representation of the truth of myself writing was. A soft place to land with all my innermost dreams safely kept, writing was. It was what I needed to make sense of the world around me.
I have always loved to write.
To write or not to write was never a question. How I was to write was the object of my affections. So many choices! So many ways to poetically describe, dramatically design, narratively define, or emphatically align expositions, and persuasions like dance parties on paper held first in my mind. I learned to invite others into this gift. I learned over time how to share this gift. I learned how to multiply this gift by giving it away and until this day, I have found that the musings of my heart continue to create melodic interpretations of the grace that I’ve been afforded in every single word.
I have always loved to write.
But, more importantly, I am being written day by day, moment by moment. My experiences are leaving indelible impressions upon my heart which are rhythmically beating into compositions of truth. I march to those patterns in a beautifully broken way, genuinely. I am yet being written before my family, friends, coworkers and strangers. I am being written in time, yet not bound by its constraints because words are timeless. I am a living epistle, read of men and women and boys and girls. I am a letter addressed to those willing to read my story, a narrative still in process, a page-turner-cliff-hanger-tear-jerker full of faith, determined in joy.
Read with eyes.
Experienced in heart.
Written by the pen of God whose love will never depart. He loves to write too!
I guess, I’m just like my Daddy.
