I’ve been a writer since I could hold a pen. I share my experiences with the tools of words. I understand their power and their magic, I revel in their mysteries.
The Bible says, “In the beginning was the Word…” and I wholeheartedly agree.
And then one day, long ago, I met a man whose sword was a red pen. I’ll leave out the details of how I met him and the circumstance, but suffice to say that where I was at that point in my life, he held the power to affect my self-esteem.
“I thought you said you were a writer…” His thoughtless words stabbed my heart as he would hand me back my papers, red ink running like blood from the sidelines. “You can’t even spell…what made you think you can be a writer if you can’t even spell?”
He didn’t lie. I can’t spell. Thank God for Spellcheck, this dyslexic writer can’t even spell dyslexic without auto-correct. My hand-written notebooks and journals will have to be translated if anyone ever peeks inside of them. But does that mean a disability is to be the death of my dreams?
For awhile, after the Red Pen Man had carved his comments into my soul, I thought perhaps it was. I thought perhaps I had been led by folly to think that there would ever be a time or place in my life where my written words would have the power to help or entertain others. For awhile, I put away my pen and hid behind the belief that the title “Writer” belongs only to those whose grammar and spelling could toe the line.
But I couldn’t keep the words at bay. Words bottled up in my spirit and clouded my mind. They hung heavy on my heart and ached for release. I started surfing the internet, reading blogs of other would-be writers who had somehow summoned their courage to put their words out there, not only on a piece of paper, but flung out into the world of lurking readers.
On an impulse, I started a blog. I wrote about Pig Farms. I pressed the publish button and shivered. It felt like I had sent my words out into the ocean in a plastic bottle. I never expected to hear from them again.
Except I did. People commented. A community grew, my little blog thrived and the slash of the red pen began to lose it’s power over me. I wrote more. I joined a writing group. I met my writing partner. We started a business, we wrote a book, we published it and lo and behold….people buy it consistently. We are writing the sequel. Our fans remind us that they are waiting.
What makes me think I can be a writer?
Because I have something to say. And I’m never again going to allow a critical comment to stop my pen.
How about you? What makes you think you can be a writer?
