Morning Musings

A  writer writes…

I am a writer. A writer writes. Not just reads. It’s the most basic job description ever.

So, here I am, sleep still in the corners of my eyes, cobwebs on the brain; writing to make that statement true about myself. I went to bed last night thinking;

“What is my writing story?”

“What, if anything have I learned or done that I could share with others to inspire them to strike out and do the thing they love?”

Jamaican Pimento tree. Photo courtesy of

I fell in love with words years ago. I wrote my first poem when I was eight years old. It was about a pimento (all-spice) tree that stood on the lot next door to my childhood home.

I was in tears after loggers came and cut down the tree that had been a huge part of my eight year old life. I was a sensitive soul.

In a fit of hysterics after witnessing what I felt to be the murder of the tree, I dashed into my house, grabbed my diary and wrote the poem on tear stained paper.

Robertha the poet was born. But I haven’t always been good or true to that little girl who fell in love with words. The little girl that knew, even at eight years old that her life would be steeped in words.

Despite this deep knowledge, I was a coward for a long time. I wrote, but in secret. I did not share my writing with anyone. I filled my life with everything except the words I love so much.

Photo courtesy of Large Stuff Magazine

Do I believe I am the greatest writer that ever lived? Of course not, but I know that the urge to document things comes from a real place. I know I have something to say.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I re-read a piece I’ve written and I’m appalled at how bad it is. But other times, the magic times, I surprise myself with a beautiful turn of phrase.

So what do I have to share? Don’t deny yourself. This blog exists because I finally got tired. I got tired of working my words for others. I got tired of only writing in the spaces between all the stuff in my life.

I finally thought, “If not now, 36 years young, then when?”

We all have to step out and just do it at some point. Just do that thing we love that calls to us.Whether or not we think we are _____ enough. You can fill that blank space with as many adjectives as borrowed words in the English Language.

I’m saying, do it. Whatever it is. Do it afraid, do it with the doubt monster gnashing at your heels, yelling in your ear, lashing at your back.

I’m terrified, but I’m a writer, a writer writes. I’m doing my it. You can too.


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