I want to be a writer but can’t seem to find where to start.
I’ve been writing my entire life. I write in my head. I write in my journal. I write out loud then I never write on paper.
My grandma still tells the story of the time when I was little, maybe 5, maybe, and I brought her a book filled with scribbles and called it “my writing”.
I want to write because I love it. I want to write because I love who I am in the written word. I can be clever and witty and honest and wise in a way that I can rarely do in the spoken word. Something about writing it down, putting in on paper with thought, with pain,with joy, with prayer and pen.
I want to write simply to write.
I want to write to be able get paid for it. To ease a smidgen of the financial pressure of my husband who works tirelessly to support our family.
I want to be known as a writer. When people ask me “What do you do?” I’d like to be able to reply that I stay at home and raise my children during their waking hours, and clean, fold laundry and write during the sleeping one.
So here I am. I’m writing.
Because I want to be a writer.