I can’t trace how or when I knew I wanted to be a writer.
It just sorta happened.
There wasn’t a glorious ‘Aha’ moment or a childhood dream that I longed to fulfill.
There was just this quiet certainty that my words could make people feel something and that I was good at them (sufficiently good).
They became my personal calling card.
A handwritten letter here, a heartfelt note there. A couple of articles. Maybe a nice caption or a carefully worded holiday card.
I chose each occasion and labored over my words. Each one carefully selected to inspire a reaction, a feeling or even a memory. With every crafted sentence, my words came alive.
A reflection of me.
A piece of my soul freely given to a friend or loved one.
If my words were the only way I could add value or make a difference to someone’s life, I’d take it. I’d scribble silly little notes and kooky sentences and musings that go nowhere just to watch people react.
After all, isn’t that the point?