Deleted.

When I write I feel like me. I feel like my words can make a difference or just explain something that I’m thinking or feeling in a way that may connect with someone else. I’m always encouraged to write, I always want to write, but I find myself a barrier to my own so called talent. I pick each and every word with care, yet I often hate the product. The process is difficult, but something I enjoy. Once the process is complete, most of the time, I highlight the words and, without regret, I press delete. I don’t mind going through the struggle of finding the right words only to delete them. I also don’t mind sharing some of the products that I’m not so proud of. I do mind, however, knowing that I prevent myself from writing a longer work. My dreams of becoming a writer and telling a story worth telling has been far from anything close to what I strive for. It bothers me that I think I can’t do it, but others think I can. To be honest, I wouldn’t even know where to start. When I shrug it off and claim it’s a distant dream, don’t believe me. It’s real and it scares me that I don’t know what to do with it.