My pulpit is this notebook.
My congregation is the short span of time you give to me.
Whether I bleed over this page, vomit onto it, or tap into my muse and speak well, I am still at my pulpit.
You, the congregation of time-givers, do not make me who I am.
Even this pulpit, these notebook pages in front of me, do not make me who I am.
I was always meant for this pulpit, even before I knew it existed and even while I refused to acknowledge it.
Whether I speak from this pulpit or remain silent, I am still this writer.
And so are you.
The voice that says “please write”
At some point, you began to realize there’s a part of you that longs for you to write. In a way, it longs to be written. Your fingers are just a tool to help the escape of this voiceless urge inside you.
You may not be sure from where it comes, why it’s there, whether it’s legitimate, perhaps you only have small, peripheral inklings of its presence. But you feel it.
You have begun to feel something inside of you that pushes you to explore what it means to write.
