I love to write. I must write.
But I've never considered myself a true writer. True writers take great pleasure in wordiness. They draw warm, soothing bubble baths of long, descriptive paragraphs and soak in them until their toes get all pruny. They find enormous satisfaction in the perfect turn of a phrase or a well-conveyed thought. They can literally spend page after page on one emotional concept.
I've always wanted to be a true writer. I wish it took me longer to say things. I wish my paragraphs were less like a quick shower. I wish I could spend thousands of words on one feeling without boring myself to tears. I wish I were not perfectly content with mediocre sentence structure or an incomplete thought.
But God made me short and sweet and to the point.
I have resolved to stop wishing I were something else.
I like my writing style.
Even if the writing world forever pats me on the head and struggles to choke benign platitudes in my direction.
Even if I'm doomed to an eternity of one Chicken Soup for the Soul composition after another.
Even if only ten people read what I write.
Bring it on! I love Chicken Soup for the Soul! Makes me cry every time!
In lieu of official blogger awards, which I don't know how to facilitate, I'd like to give credence to a few of my encouragers.
To my sister Shelly, for being able to see the precarious green shoot of the real me pushing timidly out of the fertile earth, and for moving in to protect, nurture and cultivate.
To my sister Kim, for giving me a glimpse of where I'll someday be. You are the real you, no apologies, and you delight all those who know you.
To my sister Velma, for choosing me, committing to me, enjoying me, fighting for me, accepting me, and understanding me.
To my sister Rebecca, for knowing me well enough to be genuinely proud of my giant crock pot milestone yesterday, and for never being intimidated by my erratic moods.
To my sister Kami, for not holding back, for being courageous, for jumping headlong into our friendship, and for your sweet, gentle spirit.
To my Abba. For being able to see the precarious green shoot of the real me pushing timidly out of the fertile earth, and for moving in to protect, nurture and cultivate. For giving me a glimpse of where I'll someday be. For choosing me. For committing to me. For enjoying me. For fighting for me. For accepting me. For understanding me. For knowing me well enough to be genuinely proud of my giant crock pot milestone yesterday. For never being intimidated by my erratic moods. For not holding back. For being courage. For jumping headlong into our friendship. For Your sweet, gentle Spirit. For Shelly. For Kim. For Velma. For Rebecca. For Kami. And for making me a true writer.