I’ve been looking the other way. For months. At what point does a writer quit scribbling in journals? Quit tapping words into blank spaces? Even now, I can barely make these fingers move. I sat for ten minutes just waiting to open my online home. Why?

Somewhere along the way I told myself that this blog was an utter failure.

That no one was reading. That I was too busy. That the change I thought could take place in people’s lives by seeing life in a different way, a way I hoped to show people through my writing, wasn’t happening.

Ironically, this sticky place has occurred in the most interesting time of my life, when helping others write has actually become my career. A career I love.

For the longest time, I asked God if I was a writer.

“Do you really want me to write?”
“Will anyone even care about what I say?”
“Will they just see me or will they really see You?

After a while, I quit listening to His answer and answered for myself.

“No, no one is listening. No one cares. No, you are not a writer.”

And for six months, I have actually been dream grieving. In the six months that I have taken off from writing, a piece of me withered. This morning, I decided to look up. And to pick up my hands and write. I wrote despite my feelings.

I wrote about a crazed pixie Senior who wanted to beat me up when I was a freshman in high school. I wrote about love never realized, and another never meant to be.  I wrote a partial script. A scrap of a book series.

The point is, I wrote. As I wrote, my words blossomed. And this withered flower drank in a little piece of freedom. Freedom from the fear of failure and all its’ thug friends.

When we focus on our failures, we freeze.

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