It dawned on me that in a drunken haste on New Years Eve, I scribbled an often made but seldom kept resolution on my arm: Write everyday. At the time, did I hope to keep this resolution? Of course. But did I believe that I would keep this resolution? Eh, not really. And in my mind, I have justified that I have been writing everyday since January 1, 2009. I’ve written comments here and there. I’ve proofread a few writing samples for grad school applications. I’ve even begun writing the required statement of purpose. So yes, I have been writing.
But what does this writing accomplish? Well, hopefully it gets me into grad school where I can become preoccupied with writing literary critiques about articles that no one except those in my immediate academic circle will give one ounce of attention to. And the writing that I desire to accomplish will slowly slip by until I reluctantly reconcile to the fact that I am too busy to write.
How utterly bleak. Writing—narrating, storytelling, creating—is a part of who I am. Why do I constantly disregard this part of me? Am I afraid of what might come out? Am I shying away from what I have convinced myself that I can’t accomplish? To write, to narrate, to tell is an adventure, a leap of faith into the unknown. And yes, I am a coward.
As I drove to Borders this afternoon to actually make myself state my purpose in 500 words or less, I had an immediate feeling of panic. I’m not writing and there are stories to tell. I’m not writing and my head swims in narratives untold. I’m not writing.
God has given me one life to live, and I do not want to be a coward and let that one life go to waste by not acting. Dear Lord, I have to keep this resolution before these stories pass away.
I’m afraid that my sanity rests on it.
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