“You have such a way with words.”
“Hey, when’s the book coming out?”
Before I even thought seriously about becoming a writer, many of my friends and loved ones recognized my talent. Not that I don’t appreciate a compliment, but I had to ignore the acclaim to see if I loved writing as much as I appeared. So, I busied myself. Filled my life with other good, important tasks so that I didn’t have time to write. No one else knew that I was doing this. In a way, even I wasn’t sure of what I was doing.
And I realized that I was implementing only 40% of my insides to the world around me. I wasn’t able to articulate my creativity as fluidly in my other responsibilities/jobs. I consistently felt less than competent most of the time. There I was, surrounded by opportunities to create new projects and bring change to organizations that I work for, but I was clogged mentally. What’s more frustrating is that I knew I held a unique gift for words that could be useful in some way, but no steam or confidence to show it. For example, a particularly favorite task of mine is to help students with resumes/cover letters. Only because I get the awesome privilege to mold words. Every resume appointment that I had or anything remotely close revealed me as steady and focused.
Reluctantly, I admit that I whined in the beginning.
“in the end, the effectiveness of our creative process comes down to whether or not were going to whine or do the work.” — Blaine Hogan
Eventually, I realized that it was my own fault for crowding out my love for words with other, slightly less, but very important pursuits. Furthermore, these pursuits cannot keep me from writing unless I allow it. For me, the work involved holding writing as a priority for work, and not just as a needed hobby to decompress or maintain my sanity. I owed writing more of my efforts.
I have always wanted to explain an inexplicable feeling. My very first poem was written to express grief over losing my brother. I didn’t know any other way to help satisfy the pressure I felt on my shoulders. I had cried, prayed, and spent time with people I knew loved me. But the weight was too significant. Even though I didn’t receive full release (there is still a portion to the void left), I cannot duplicate the feeling I experienced when I place words to page.
In that moment, I knew exactly how I felt. I was able to explain my grief. And I felt at peace with God. That momentary clarity showed me that everything was going to be alright. If I had the strength to scribe my pain, it meant that I had lived through it. Life was still livable. No amount of pain could conquer my soul as long as I had this ability to communicate to God via pad/pen.
Not only did I vividly understand why David scribed most of the Psalms, but I felt why it was included in the canonical book we know as the Bible.
I had reached into my core and pulled out whatever I could get my hands on. Calm or tumultuous. Brimming with kindness or hatred. Purpose followed. Because I knew God had/would surround me with people who held unexplainable emotions/circumstances in their feeble hands. Would I be the one He would use to bring clarity to minds burdened by turmoil?
If this was so, then I would be need to be moved in amazing measures before I would use words to move others.
Which brings me to one of my purposes in life: Using words to help maneuver hearts through life; sparking lights of passion in those who simply seek to exist.
“You have such a way with words!”
Again, I appreciate the compliment, but this is more than a talent.