I once had a problem with my soul. The solution was to stop thinking of myself as a writer.
All the inner figuring I was doing was failing, and that was the only answer I could come up: I would forgo my identity as poet and author. I didn’t tell anyone because it seemed a bit dramatic.
After I decided not to be a writer anymore, my soul became soothed.
How it had become ruffled, is a story for behind the pay wall, because it is not a noble story.
Now I write every week for an audience.
For you.
I ‘became’ a writer again by accident.
Many of you know the story: I decided to start writing letters to my daughter who was travelling overseas for the first time. The letters were intended to feel like the ones I used to send via post, and receive from home in various parts of the world.
The letters would contain funny stories, memories and glimpses of our lives – what we were reading or doing or listening to.
By strange progressions, letters to Jules turned into Love Letter that now has almost a thousand subscribers.
Sneakily, the mechanism buried deep inside the folds of my brain carried on working while I tried to ignore it. It found ways to bypass my intentions to ignore the compulsion to write.
There is no moral to this story.
There’s just the story.
Here it is.
