For a long time I believed I did not have the right to call myself a writer.
Instead, I would say cumbersome things like, “I enjoy writing” or, “Writing poetry is a hobby of mine”. And now, when I try to weigh those statements on my tongue I can only think that I am lying, to you, to me, that I am a liar in this moment.
Because I don’t enjoy writing. It’s not a hobby. It is painful, it is beautiful, these words are living, breathing, in me and outside of me and I am wearing this writing like clothing. I am breathing it in and drinking these words up like air and water, and when they come together at last with the help of my pen I am raining them down upon the paper.
You see, from a very young age I have believed in the beauty and power of words. After all, I am convinced that God would not have created something ordinary to house our prayers to Him in. That He would not have made anything less than amazing to sew the innermost thoughts of the ones He loved so much into. These words are a gift from God, and I refuse to spend another moment denying that He gave me hands to shape them. He gave me a mind to mold them, and a heart to hold them close long after they have been spoken.
My God made me to be a writer. And as I emptied out my change jar so I could buy this notebook full of incredibly blank white paper, I began to believe it at last.
-Jessi Sanders 2012