Writing
This morning it has hit me afresh. I crave writing time. As I sit at the table, the laptop, a cup of coffee and the sun rising outside I need these moments. More and more. I am feeling the pull to write.
It is the only way I can tell a story. Spoken words do not come easily to these lips. Broken sentences, forgotten details, they never make sense. I look to Husband Jared to finish it for me. Yet when I sit here and type away, or find my pen and a blank sheet of paper, they flow. Independence. Freedom to share what I want, to leave out the mundane or make it the spotlight. It is by my choosing.
A gift. Each memory written to be savored so as not lost. An outpouring of my soul. Other times hilarity abounds and there is no rhyme or reason. A writer's perogative, right? For now yes. Yet I know where the words come from. He hems in the before and after and I thank Him for giving me another day to write.
It is the only way I can tell a story. Spoken words do not come easily to these lips. Broken sentences, forgotten details, they never make sense. I look to Husband Jared to finish it for me. Yet when I sit here and type away, or find my pen and a blank sheet of paper, they flow. Independence. Freedom to share what I want, to leave out the mundane or make it the spotlight. It is by my choosing.
A gift. Each memory written to be savored so as not lost. An outpouring of my soul. Other times hilarity abounds and there is no rhyme or reason. A writer's perogative, right? For now yes. Yet I know where the words come from. He hems in the before and after and I thank Him for giving me another day to write.
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