It seems almost silly to say. I’ve been writing a book…for years I guess. Starting all the way back to 2014, if not before.
You see, writing has always been a part of who I am, what I do, and how I can be in the world. So I’ve carried notebooks with me, jotting down thoughts here, ideas there, and words I love always.
So it’s really no wonder I would ever be a writer.
But at some point, I started to notice just how much I had written, and how much I wanted to tell. So when 2020 hit and I saw people around me struggling, my knee-jerk reaction was to write.
And you know the crazy thing? My words meant something. And people found meaning in them. My sister-in-law said her family got “hope and empowerment” from one of my poems. Others told me they needed somebody to “put words to what they were experiencing.”
I’ve always known all I ever wanted to do was be a writer. But I never really knew how I would actually be able to do it. I went to college, got a job, scribbled notes constantly, learned the industry, rebelled against it, but kept finding myself back here again and again.
With the words, and how they make people feel, and the power those words can hold.
I know we each can make a difference in this world.
My way is through my thoughts and writing.
Plus a strange understanding of rhythm and form.
All I’ve ever wanted was for someone, somewhere, to someday be able to read my words and underline them.
And maybe, just maybe, change the world….
But here’s the thing:
I can’t do it without you.