I always thought being a daydreamer was a bad thing. It sometimes got me called upon in school when I did not have the answer. It meant I was often looking to the next thing to look forward to instead of enjoying the here and now. It meant my mind was racing, all the time; barely allowing a thought to complete before the next one came barreling in.

My thoughts often confused me, for they felt more like stories; stories I did not dare put on paper. Someone might read them! I clasped them to me, holding tightly, afraid of what they might become.

But then I wrote a blog and people liked it. Friends asked me why I hadn’t been writing all along. The answer was complicated, so much that even I couldn’t understand it fully. All I knew was I wanted to write more and never stop.

I decided I needed to read more. Those that know me may laugh, aware of my several library trips a month and passion for used books. I was usually reading more than one book at a time. But I didn’t want mystery novels or detective dramas; I wanted to read about writing.

I fell in love with a book that changed me. “The Art of War” by Steven Pressfield made me feel like the author was looking into my brain. How did he know I had those insecurities? I suddenly felt a bond with every writer that ever lived. There was something bigger than all of us that joined us together; that ache, deep inside, to write and write well.

But there was a common enemy I had not dared acknowledge; Resistance. It’s the fear inside us all and the fear I gave into, every time. It was easier to not try and therefore never fail. “Resistance aims to kill. Its target is the epicenter of our being; our genius, our soul, the unique and priceless gifts we were put on earth to give and that no one else has but us.”

Now that I knew what it was, it was harder to fall into its snare. It wasn’t until recently that I knew being a day dreamer wasn’t a bad thing. All the times my mind was racing, it really was writing. The words inside me were longing to be set free and I no longer wanted to silence them.

And so I write. Sometimes the words pour out too fast and others I stare at a blank page and can think of nothing at all. At least I know now that I cannot stop, even when writing is hard. Just because the path is rocky doesn’t mean you go find another. I read this with new eyes; “The athlete knows the day will never come when he walks pain-free. He has to play hurt.”

Even when it hurts, I write. I wish at times I could put my life on hold so I can write, and even when I stop to jot down notes, I feel I can do more. That is the feeling I never want to lose. Maybe if I never stop saying that I’m a writer, I never will stop being a writer. Sounds like a good goal to me.