I once heard someone say that writing is no profession. Writing is a disease without a proper cure. Born writer or trained writer, inspiration is drawn from the same pools. Inspiration is either sought, found, or both. Pools of pain, experience, growth. Pools of laughter, sorrow, and thought. The handshake from a stranger, or the sound of the first raindrop fuels a writer. It is the clanking of dishes after a hefty meal, of the slow engines of garbage trucks on Tuesday mornings. Writing is relief and redemption. It is the link between feeling human and feeling heard.

I remained a closeted writer for the majority of my life. The writing was something secret, sacred, and untouched by outsiders, and admitting “I am a poet” required generous amounts of courage and confidence. Being a writer is hardly something to hold pride in – it does not pay the bills and does not answer any of life’s big questions: Where am I headed? Will I be successful? What is life anyway? Although writing does not provide answers to these questions, it allows avenues to express concerns. Writing is no profession, it is a disease without a proper cure. Many writers (like myself) have no choice but to let our stories write themselves. Some of these stories are heartbreakingly painful, some are miraculous and motivating; regardless of the words written, where they come from provided a sense of security and solace within oneself. With all of life’s tribulations, some consider writing a gift from the god(s) above due to the ability to release emotion in such rigid structure and style.

In the age of rapidly growing technology and instant messages, the necessity and desire to read between the lines have diminished. Along with this, the ability to write the lines in books disappears also; however, as long as the human body possesses a brain to contemplate with and a heart-pumping scarlet blood, there will be room for writing. After all, writing is simply bleeding ink into standard lines.