This prompt is easy for me today because all I’ve been thinking for the past month or so is I MUST WRITE.
Without writing, my mind gets heavy. And heavy, it has been. Words and thoughts swirl around in my head, and I can’t get rid of them. Then, I lay awake at night, and I don’t sleep. And then I wake up, and I’m grumpy because I didn’t sleep. And I’m grumpy that I have to go to work and not write or sleep.
I sit at my desk at work, I answer phone calls, I answer customer service chats, and I just. Want. To. Write. I want to run out of the office, speed home (maybe stop by Starbucks first—I feel more literary with coffee in hand) and write. Write all day. Stay up all night. Not have to worry about missing work or being to tired to do my job well.
Maybe some day my job will be to write. Oh, a girl can dream.
If only I didn’t have to go to work. I probably would stay up late and write whenever I wanted. I get these grand ideas as I’m falling asleep, and I have to fight every creative fiber in my being from flipping on the light and just writing until I fall asleep on my laptop. But the impending alarm I have set for 6 am hangs above my head, and I realize: I have to go to work. I can’t just call in and say, “Sorry, I had a great idea for a story or a blog or an article last night around 11 pm, so I stayed up until 4 am writing, and can’t stop now. On a roll.”
I have been writing since I was a kid. I read some of my old short stories from third grade, and I think: Damn, I had no qualms or hesitations back then. I was so confident. I wrote what I wanted to write. I didn’t worry about what people thought. I wrote a story about a unicorn. I wrote a story about a girl who had a crush on someone who liked someone else. I wrote in my diary multiple times a day. I read books. I didn’t let things get in the way of my passions, of the thing I was born to do.
I was meant to write. I am not myself unless I write. Even when it’s something as simple as this post. Moving my fingers along the keys, the soft clicking as I press them down, seeing the letters form on the screen, the blinking cursor… I’m pretty sure I dream about it at night along with beautiful journals and notebooks, pens, pencils, story webs, blog posts, and stacks of typed manuscripts
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