It's been a long while since I've done this. Fifteen minutes, no agenda, no blog thought in mind, no perfectly packaged idea or list or collection of links. It's just me and a blinking cursor on a big white window.
Why do I always feel like there are no words to say? Why does this voice whisper steadily in my soul that I have nothing to say, that there's no point to it all, that if I stopped blogging, nobody would notice? Maybe it's doubt, maybe it's pride. Maybe it's thinking too much of myself or too little of the work of writing. Maybe it's uncertainty, fear, immaturity, restlessness.
Whatever it is, I'm shutting up the voice because here I am, doing the work, putting the words together. I know they aren't poetic and there might not be much purpose to it all, but I'm stringing sentences together and silencing the voices that say there are no words.
Here they are. Here are the words.
Here are the words declaring that even when I'm tired despite 9 hours of solid sleep for once, I am here, I am capable, and I am creative. Here are the words declaring that I have value, that my words have value, that my writing is meaningful even if few people read it.
Here are the words stating that no matter how I feel, I know that writing is what I am called to do, so write, I will.
Here are the words acknowledging the doubts and letting them say their peace, because I want to listen to what's behind them, but here also are the words speaking truth to dispel them.
I am a writer. I have words available to me. I have thoughts even when they're muddled. I have opinions and convictions. I have words from others far wiser than I echoing in my mind. I have the Word of Truth before me, shining light unto the path before me and reminding me where all my identity comes from. I am a writer.
I am a writer if there are comments on my posts or if nobody ever sees them. I am a writer if there is praise in response to my work or if there is criticism or if there is silence. I am a writer even if it has been weeks since I've really written, and I am a writer even when all I can muster are fragments.
I am a writer.
I will commit to filling blank pages, to putting pen on paper after long days when I would rather close my eyes, to putting prayers to the page so I can remember when they are answered, to filling white windows with even lines of messy ramblings.
I will write, because I am a writer.
I will do the work, because I am a writer.
I will do what it takes, be it fifteen-minute freewrites or journal pages or book reviews, because I am a writer.
I will use my words, because I am a writer.
I am a writer.