What am I doing here? Why am I blogging? Is this thing really a call?
I'm going to be a writer when I grow up. I remember sitting with my uncle as a 12 year old girl declaring my own future. I wrote then, fiction. Rereading 12 year old girl fiction makes me smile gently at my younger self. The fiction is bad.
The direction changed with high school sciences. I would be a missionary doctor. Far from the heart cry of this person, but science was interesting. Science was serious business. Science was the field smart people went into otherwise their intelligence was wasted. Or that was the message I received. I so wanted to be smart like that.
But I wasn't. I'm not. I married someone smart like that who has a heart like that. The world I see is different than his. I am designed differently. I ask heart questions. I stew in words, nothing is quite real until it has words. Named the question, the fear, the work. Given words to the answers. I am driven to give words. I journal.
If I were a writer, I would be an essayist, a memoirist. My life isn't making headlines so blogging is my memoir.