My mama always told me I was a writer. There are plenty of things that she told me I was; I just didn’t totally believe her for about 10-20 years. Brilliant. Talented. Precious. Strong. Just to name a few.
My soul sister Lauren also told me I was a few things. Powerful. Complete. Creative. Inspiring. And so much more.
I met up with Lauren yesterday – over the best sweet potato fries we’ve ever had – and told her I was going to start writing. She asked me what I had already been writing. I told her I’d been penning my version of the Federalist Papers (based on my concept of Humachism), journaling, freestyling, and writing some fire ass bars of poetry.
She told me I wasn’t going to start writing. She told me I was already a writer.
“Sometimes you practice for the game; and then sometimes practice is the game,” she said. I have been practicing, and how it’s time to take that practice public.
You know when you know you have a gift, like a God breathed, I-do-not-know-where-else-this-could-have-come-from kind of gift, but the idea of sharing it brings on an existential kind of dread?
Like, am I trippin?
It’s easy to think you’re great without an audience. If American Idol taught me anything, it was that.
But also, that existential dread is drenched in an uncontainable excitement and sprinkled with a nagging pull to shout your blessing from the rooftops.
At a certain point, one must dive into the actual water. Not visualize, not track on a trampoline, but dive in and break the surface tension. There will always be surface tension.
I may rupture a tendon or hit with a slap. It may hurt. It may sting. I may also slice the water so smooth that it’s like a hot knife cutting through butter (as my dad would say about anything I set my mind to).
Only one way to find out.
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