|Sunset from Little Round Top - Gettysburg, PA|
Photo by Loree Huebner
I've been seriously writing for about ten years now. When I really think about it, writing has always been in my blood. Even as a child, I always knew I would be a writer. I didn’t come from a long line of writers; I came from good storytellers. Writing, however, didn’t take root in my life until major events happened. The time and the season had to be right. Once I did start to put words on paper, it came as natural as breathing. I take on a spirit of joy.
It’s a calling.
Some writers can’t explain what drives them. I’m one of them. I only know that I experience an abrupt emptiness if I don’t tell that story, or write that particular piece. I have found that the heart of a writer aches in a way that most cannot explain in their own words, not even on paper.
Not everyone has this calling.
The first time I told my best friend that I was writing a book, she just sat there, politely nodding and smiling as I excitedly rambled on about the plot and my vision. She seemed to try hard to follow along, but I knew she just didn’t get it. She didn’t understand my passion. This is when I realized that writing could put me in a very lonely place—a place of joy that I could not share, even with my best friend.
Ever try to explain your writing to a friend or family member who doesn’t write? Did they understand, or just politely nod their heads? “Uh yeah…uh huh.”
Between you, me and the gate post,