My writing is very personal to me. It is an extension of who I am, a part of myself. It’s a risky thing, offering up a part of yourself to someone. What if I put a piece of myself out there and no one likes it? What if they make fun of it? Or, worse yet, what if no one even cares enough to read it?

So, why, you may ask, did I set up a blog in the first place? Why even open myself up to those fears? Not such a simple answer to that one. It’s because I’m a writer. Writing is at the very core of who I am. It’s coded into my DNA. It’s part of my purpose and destiny. In every season of my life as far back as I can remember I have written. Stories, poems, songs, plays, journals. Some things have been offered up, some closely guarded. Of those offered, some have been graciously received and some have been met with such scorn and ridicule that I felt like giving up.

Yet still I write. I have dry seasons, where somewhere inside of me the flow has been turned off. There are also times where the words come almost too quickly to get them down on the page. Sometimes it’s therapy. Sometimes it’s a way of capturing revelation or a picture in my mind. It can be both joyful and exhausting and there are those days when the pages are sprinkled with tears. But I know without a doubt that if I were to ever stop writing, a part of me would slowly wither away.

I am a writer.

I guess it’s not really that complicated after all.