This will probably be deleted/hidden shortly.
One can only be expected to be so brave in a week and my bravery is about expired. Edit: I won't delete this, solely because I love Jennifer Peterson and Barbara Lane that much.
I am a writer
...and this is one of the hardest things in the world for me to say.
I'd never said it out loud until yesterday at the last day of Hutchmoot and even then I choked on the words as they were whispered in the ear of someone who I knew would understand.
And right now I am terrified of throwing it out there. I want to take crumple this up, toss it into the trash, and never look back. I want to ignore the feeling that pushes me to write this, I want to place this urge into a box and place it on an unmarked shelf, never to be found again.
There is something about letting the words lose into the world that terrifies me and I don't completely understand why, all I know is I want to be a coward.
But I am going to try and be brave and hopefully the try will turn to brave.
People have told me, "You're a beautiful writer," and I have stammered back, "I'm not a writer, I'm just messing around with words." For I am sure that writers are people who write with beautiful prose and never doubt their gift. They know deep down that they were made to weave and spin those marks on paper and the words obey them.
I on the other hand am wracked with insecurities. I feel like a five year old child with a pencil grasped in her chubby hand, tongue out in concentration trying to capture a brilliant sunset with black and crooked lines.
So, I belittle the words that I have been given and I to climb into a box, close my eyes, and I hide.
I compare myself to other writers whom I admire and I know that I fall so far short. Fear crawls in the hole that comparison and insecurity has opened and voices whisper to me, reminding me of all the lack that is mine. Someone else can say it better and more eloquently than I-so why try?
At times they whisper and other times they shout but always they say, "You am not good enough, intelligent enough, and wise enough to be a writer," and I believe it.
Like a fish I swallow the lie like a hook and am reeled up onto the beach gasping for breath.
But I am going swimming back into the ocean of grace thanks to all the loving people who insisted on speaking louder than the voices this weekend. I denied and said I was fine, they insisted. They dragged me struggling off of the beach and they tossed me back into the sea.
Because of them am going to dive deep and rest in who I really am.
Truth: I am Ming, I am not as beautiful and eloquent as all of the other writers I know-but I still have my own words. I will never write a book or publish anything but I have words.
I do not write for anything other than the joy that I find in the act of weaving, spinning, and stitching words together and that is okay. I may not be able to turn a prose and capture an audience but I still have a story that has been given me.
I have something that no one else does and that is; I am Ming. I have warts, bruises, scars, and freckles that are all my own and they will be where I write from. Others may be able to say it better than I, but they cannot say it exactly like I can--for I am me.
And I'm going to hold onto that with faith that it's true even when I don't believe it.
I am Ming,
I read books like they are essential for life and I am friends with all of the flavors of the wind. I am an idealist and I can be bossy.
I long for things to be redeemed and made right, starting with myself.
I am a nurse, I am a fan of watermelon and laughter, and I am an overthinker.
I apologize far more than necessary and I am stubborn from time to time.
I am deeply loved more than I ever dared to hope and my Father is awfully fond of me.
I desire more than anything to live each moment I've been given well and I am a writer, for I love the craft of stitching words into sentences.
And I am going to trust that I am here for a reason if I don't see or understand why, for my God is weaving a beautiful epic story using everything, even this small dark thread that is my life.