Always A Believer - Mini Series (Narrated)
- Jan 11, 2022
- 3 min read
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
Overthinking was my cripple.
I don’t quite remember when I started writing. I don’t really remember what inspired me to.
All I knew, was that I loved it.
It was all I wanted to do. All I wished to do.
In a time before laptops, tablets and cellphones, I picked up a pen and lined paper. I wrote until my hand cramped. I wrote until my creativity was exhausted. I wrote until my patience was miniscule.
When either of these things happened, I didn’t stop. I only took a break.
I gave my hand, creativity and patience a rest.
Then I was back at it again.
Patience, cramping, creating.
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
By the age of fifteen, I knew I wanted to pursue writing. I was filled with a confident certainty that it was my destiny. I was passionate, nothing could hinder it.
By the age of fifteen, I started researching writing programs.
Universities, Colleges.
The potential of pursuing my dream and making it into the best reality I could ever imagine.
The only reality I could possibly contemplate.
There was no other option. This was it.
I was going to be a writer.
End. Of. Sentence.
Thrill rushed through my veins like blood.
Enthusiasm overtook my words like speech.
I could do this, I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
I sprinkled my plans to everyone I knew. Like a magic dust left to inspire others.
Until it landed on the head of someone who shook it off.
No sparkle was wanted.
It reached the ears of my tenth grade English teacher.
With thrill rushing through my veins like blood.
With enthusiasm rolling through my words like speech.
Until he laughed.
He chuckled.
Shook his head.
Looked me in the eyes and said.
“I’ve never seen any good writing from you.”
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
But
Overthinking was my cripple.
No longer a writer-to-be.
Or an author inspired.
Or even a dreamer.
I was a sixteen year old girl.
Whose soul was crushed.
The rug was swept from under my feet.
My heart was torn in half.
The blood in my veins were just cells.
The speech on my tongue was just words.
I cried in the arms of my best friend.
I cried to my parents.
I cried onto the hundreds of pages I wrote.
I bawled.
I broke.
I stopped writing.
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
Like the flick of a lightswitch.
I altered my dreams.
Towards my next-in-line passion.
Music.
Still art.
Still creative.
Still patient.
Piano being my instrument, my hand still cramped.
I tricked my mind and my soul. Like it was muscle memory.
This was my new passion. My new destiny filled with born-again confident certainty.
I refused to let anyone break me down this time.
I didn’t.
I surpassed.
I prospered.
I pushed and pulled.
I studied.
I worked.
I never stopped.
Discouraging words were my new hurdle. Disbelief was my new encouragement.
Petty payback was my new drive.
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
I stopped writing.
But, I spread the magic of music.
That magical dust still lingered.
Right?
Right?
I graduated. Found a career.
I got married. I got a house. I had a baby.
I rid my life of discouraging words and disbelieving thoughts.
I….I got inspired.
I wanted to write.
I had to write.
I thought of a story.
One I needed to tell.
So, I sat down.
And I wrote.
I wrote until my fingers cramped. I wrote until my creativity was exhausted. I wrote until my patience was miniscule.
When either of these things happened, I didn’t stop.
I only took a break.
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
But
Overthinking was my cripple.
Could I be a writer?
Could I publish like I always dreamed?
Could I revive my passion?
Could I outlive my destiny?
I wrote until my fingers cramped. I wrote until my creativity was exhausted. I wrote until my patience was miniscule.
When either of these things happened, I didn’t stop.
I only took a break.
My blood rushed with thrill.
My speech rolled with enthusiasm.
I performed CPR to the broken sixteen year old girl.
I breathed life back into her dreams.
Thirty-year-old me realized, words aint shit.
Discouraging words are incentives.
Disbelieving thoughts are encouragement.
Petty payback is drive.
I was always a planner.
Consistently prepared.
Thinking ahead was my past-time.
Overthinking was my cripple.
But
I learned the biggest lesson I should have never forgotten.
I was always
A believer.
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