I’m a writer.
I remember being laughed at in the ninth grade when I described myself that way to my best friend at the time. She tried to convince me that I was more, that writing was something I did, not who I was, but it wasn’t true then and it isn’t true now. I process the world with a pen in hand or a keyboard beneath my fingers, journaling or crafting screenplays, short stories, novels, poems, song lyrics. It’s who I am, not just what I do.
I process my world through fiction sometimes, hiding behind the guises and thoughts of my characters, oftentimes revealing painful and insightful truths about my world. Other times, in moments of true vulnerability, I’ll put the real names to the people who’ve hurt me and sign my name under my emotions. This is one of those moments. Not naming names, per day, but refusing to hide behind fiction, being unafraid to admit who I am and what I’m going through.
It’s messy and the story’s nowhere near finished, but I’m not the author, God is and I think that alone makes my story one that deserves to be told. If I’m somehow able to help someone else through what I’m going through, then that makes it all worth it. My life is not my own. It was bought with a price on a tree at Calvary. It is just my job to share what He’s teaching me and allow Him to shine through my stained, broken, cracked glass, through all of my imperfections and mistakes.
“It is not good for man to be alone” (paraphrase of Genesis 2:18), so let’s take this journey together and see where it goes…