Am I a Writer?

Do these glasses make me look like a writer? And if I look like a writer, does that mean I am a writer? And if not, does that mean I shouldn’t write? That you won’t read it? That you won’t need it? That you won’t hear me? That you won’t feel me?

What if the things I want to say have already been said. Better. What if the things I want you to hear have already been heard. Louder. What if the things I want you to feel have already been felt. Deeper.

My head says there’s nothing I can say you haven’t heard. Nothing you need from me that you can’t get from your bookshelf. Nothing for my fingers to say that you can’t read in a hundred other places.

What if the books in my heart don’t care. If they call out to be written anyway. If they beg to have a place on your shelf. To be read. To be heard. To be understood. If they hope to have dog-eared pages and underlined phrases.

What if I told you that I’m finally going to listen to those of you that have encouraged me to write my heart down for all to read. What if I told you that those small comments on random social media ramblings and supportive text messages actually landed deep inside. That I remember them all. That I’ve been trying to believe you when you say you want to hear my soul. That I finally believe. That I am a writer. And I am going to write. Two books, to be exact. Or to start. Who knows where this path may lead. How many stories are inside waiting to be told.