I thought it took a lot to be a writer.
Extensive literary courses to use exactly the right word
and construct clever syntax with the myriad of literary devices that exist—
Hours and hours dedicated to writing,
dozens and dozens of undiscovered poems ignored by the public.
I am not clever or hilariously funny.
I cannot weave sensual, erotic, hair-raising diction into passages
for I’ve never finished writing a story—
but that’s okay.
I write to release the bottled up anger, frustration, and hurt inside of me.
I write because I am inspired by the passing thoughts of others, written down on café napkins,
not for recognition.
I expect to gain absolutely nothing from ranting to numerous Word documents.
But when someone tells me my pieces hit home,
when they tell me that is exactly how they feel—
how they weren’t able to put their emotions into words before my writing,
that is when I feel accomplished.
That is when I feel like I’ve earned the title writer.
June 28, 2014