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A Million Days

A Million Days

Today I confess to the world that I am a writer. For a million days I’ve pretended not to be.  I’ve talked myself out of it. I’ve thought saying it out loud would make me  sound arrogant or special or set apart. If I say it out loud then I have to prove it.

I don’t have a lot of energy to prove anything these days.

Mostly, saying I’m a writer just makes me sound broke.

We are all something. I guess the reason I’ve never wanted to confess it is fear. Fear that I’m drowning the air with words the world has already heard. Fear that I won’t be smart enough to think of the best way to describe something. Fear that I am not what I think I am or that I’m not doing it the right way.

I’ve been afraid that once I tell you who I am you will become the judge of whether I’m good at it or not and if you decide that I’m a horrible writer, then what will I be good at? I’ve asked this question over and over; is my writing for me or is it for the world? Maybe the answer is both. It is deeply personal and deeply private, and it is deeply vulnerable and meant to share.

I suppose we’re all writing something for people to read.

“I suppose we’re all writing something for others to read.”

Some people write with their voice. Some people write with their actions. Some people write with their finances. Some write with their bodies. Some write with paint and song. We are all leaving a story for others to read of us, of who we are, of what matters to us. Today I’m not afraid. I have important things to say and I’m going to write! I’ve decided today to be more deliberate in telling my story. Maybe it will give you courage to tell yours.

I notice people. I notice the tone of their voice and their style. I notice their interactions. I notice the words people don’t say. I notice new haircuts and feelings people wear on their faces. I notice hearts, free ones and broken ones, hearts in hiding, and hearts on fire. I notice people breathing, not in a creepy way, but in a way that reminds me that everyone deserves love and time. Their lungs breathe the air my lungs breathe.

We share something.

I notice eyes, tired ones, empty ones, bright ones, confused ones and lonely ones. That’s what I write about, what I see, what I sense, what reminds me of the noble things in life, the things we all need to remember, the things we all need to strive for, the things our hearts long for and need to laugh at.

This is my prayer as I confess to you that I’m a writer. May my words stir you to move if action is what you need. May my words make you laugh if laughter is what your soul craves. May my words remind you to cherish life and those who love you. May my words be a chorus that sings of God’s goodness and enduring love.

Love,

Johannah



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