It is Saturday night and I am here to write a blog post even though I was convinced I didn’t want to continue blogging daily after Nov. 30.
But, I am a writer. I love it. I love the act of sitting anywhere I like and write, on no matter which writing implement is at hand.
I love to make my stories better, to find plot holes the size of two planets and to completely understand where my characters are coming from.
I love to write blog posts, just sit down, and type like mad for a couple of minutes, then read through what I wrote and then hit the post button. It is such a fantastic source of joy for me.
I love to write my poems, to feel them brewing in the back of my mind somewhere, the staging area and then just feel them blurt themselves out. I love the way poetry flows in those moments, I love the feeling of being my complete self then, unafraid to show the emotions that bubble to the surface.
I love to write, pure and simple. I love to make up worlds and share my latest insights.
And I love to doodle just before the words can come through, I love to scribble my mind empty in my morning pages. I love to journal.
This is what makes my life whole.
I am a writer.