When you do something you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.
My heart aches with the idea of a story yearning to be told. As an introvert, writing for me has been an outlet since I was a child and, essentially, my voice as I preferred to avoid physical confrontations throughout my life.
When an idea pops in my head, I’m taking notes or writing notes directly into my Medium app that’s on my smartphone’s homescreen and immediately save it as a draft to be revisted and revised, if needed.
I would write for free because writing gives me life. It soothes my soul like a breath of fresh air. Like a voice that can’t wait to be heard, pressing against my chest like an internal drum, beating…beating…beating, waiting impatiently to get out.
I fall in love with the thought before it’s ever birthed to paper. I see the words etched in my head before I hit one key on my phone.
And the words come spilling out so fast to the point that I feel like I might just be writing gibberish. Yet, still, after 30-sumn years, I’m still surprised that my writing makes any sense, that my wild thoughts have the audacity to come out for all the public to see and that people love it.
I write without abandon and I love to go back and read what I wrote. Sometimes, I am nervous to read my own writing because it’s my own masterpiece and if I have failed it…then that would be tragic and I’d have to edit or delete it and write it all over again to do it justice.
But, I usually feel so passionate about each story that comes from my heart that I usually end up adding several more paragraphs as the additional ideas spill from my mind.
The mind is a beautiful place that we don’t give it much credit for. Writing from my heart is never a mistake but, instead, a brilliant creation coming from the depths of my very existence. What ever could be the harm in that?