Here I am living the writerly life as I and some other people call it. It can be lonely. It can be exciting. It is hopeful. It is revealing.

Everytime I put down the pen, closed the laptop, refused to write a complete thought because I believed mundane tasks or other people’s needs were more important than my own passion, I felt less than centered.

When I thwart my desire, for whatever reason (it can even be my own procrastination), my frustrated soul screams. It sighs, goes back into the crevices and hides deeper into my inner cave.

I’m so lucky I get to live the writerly life now and deem it high priority. Because when I awaken the author in me, anything is a prompt to get me writing. I hear about a typical, normal day and I sense a great story. Every spin, opinion or theory sounds like an intriguing idea. Everything sparks the annotator in me when I confidently claim “I am a writer!”