Clandestine Confessions

“So, are you artsy at all?”
The question was bound to be asked given we just spent the last hour viewing and analyzing hundreds of paintings and sculptures.
“Well, I can draw an art gallery worthy stick figure,” I joke. “But words are more my outlet for creativity.”
“I recall you mentioning being a writer at the wedding. And I remember the speech you gave. It was beautiful.”
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To this day, it is my favorite piece I have ever written.
Not just because of the immense honor it was to be asked to write it, but because of what it symbolized for me during that time period.
Writing about the beauty of love from a place of intense heartbreak – the dichotomy, I believe, being what gave the words their depth and meaning.
To write in the pain but from the purpose.
It became my proclamation that I refused to let what happened to me harden my heart to love, to taint how I see it, to steal my truth that love heals.
When it is right. When it is true.
Call me naïve. Call me crazy. Call me a hopeless romantic.
I will own them all – knowing it is that stubbornness to concede to the heart’s sorrow that is holding the pen to my happily ever after.
–
“Thank you,” I look over at him as we are walking. “So much for that. My ultimate dream is to spend my life just writing and travelling.”
“Do it. What is stopping you? You have the gift.”
I pause before responding, determining how much vulnerability I want to expose.
It is the question I ask myself daily and even more frequently that last week. Every answer I offer seems to be getting more diluted in power with each passing day of living so alive.
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“Fear of failure, I suppose. That it will never go anywhere. That it will all be for nothing.”
“My two cents, for what it is worth, is to treat it exactly like you have this trip. Set your mind to achieving it and just take the leap. Don’t let fear prohibit the world from knowing your words. And honestly, what is the worst that could happen?”
I have yet to come up with a plausible response to that inquiry.
“Plus, you already have one book buyer. I will read anything but really appreciate autobiographies.”
I smile. Because I knew he was not lying – given he was reading a book on Utah weather patterns when I pulled up to his house.
And also because I never told him what kind of genre I would write….
–
So, here I am.
Going to Starbucks every day to do one thing: write.
Not writing with any expectations regarding what happens once released. Simply doing it to stay in the habit of not letting fear keep me quiet.
Reminding myself daily of what I am called to do. Who I am called to be.
And trusting as I keep walking in the wisdom of those two truths, the why of it all will be revealed.
The book will find its title.
The words will find their recipients.
The author will find her purpose.
–
It appears his “two cents” is proving to be priceless…