Growing up, my Nana wrote the most beautiful poetry. It reflected her unwavering faith in God and belief in all things good. She also wrote speeches that she’d recite in church for various functions. I was about 7 or 8 years old when she bought me a black and white composition book, along with several pencils.
Nana told me I could write about anything I wanted. It didn’t take long for me to write poems and stories about family and my beloved stuff animals.
My writing was young, innocent, and brought smiles to my family when I read them at Christmas time. Writing was the greatest thing in the world back then. I didn’t have to talk to anyone or get permission. I wasn’t the most outspoken child, so writing provided me a way to express myself.
As I grew older, writing poetry and short stories became a necessity. It was what I looked forward to after school and weekends. Battling low self-esteem and anxiety plagued my teenage years. Writing was the silver lining to everything.
I’m often asked how I manage to come up with “all those poems” or why I choose to write. The thing is that I didn’t choose writing – it chose me.
There was a time I didn’t think I was worthy to be a real writer and but I realized that my voice matters. Someone needs to hear what I am saying, including me. I couldn’t stop even if I tried. Even if no one knew that I wrote, I would still do it.
I write because words fascinate me; the way they sound and the power they hold. I write because I am able to express my thoughts and feelings. I write because someone out there will be able to relate to something I say – and be changed.