Why Don’t I Just…?

You want to be a painter, but your sister thinks it’s stupid. You want to show her you have a plan. You study all the great painters. You put in extra hours at work. One raise follows another, and you invest every cent you can spare. The plan? Retire early, and paint. Maybe drop down to part-time at 40. That might be enough.

Or, you could take out your iPad in the morning and paint for 15 minutes. They even have brushes for it now.

The only label I have been willing to consistently – and happily – accept over the last seven years is “writer.” The specifics keep changing, but the joy of the practice does not. I can send myself into a stupor over using this platform or that, posting daily or weekly, writing fiction or non-fiction… I have had many an internal debate over the years, and I’m sure my most recent trip down doubt lane won’t have been my last. It did come, however, with a curious question:

Why don’t I just…write?

That’s what a writer does, isn’t it? The act is enough to make me…me. To align my aspiration with my day and make me feel at peace.

It is a tremendous gift to know who you want to be. Don’t waste it in a world without barriers.