Am I a writer?

I have struggled for years between the desire to do something and the work it requires.  I have convinced myself that I have not the time for it.  The excuse du jour is that I have many children that require my attention, and while that may be true, it is nullified by the fact that when I had fewer children I did not write.  Nor did I do so when I had none.  I remember a homily given by my parish priest many years ago.  In it he spoke about playing golf.  He said he knew someone who loved to golf, who lived for it, but only did it twice a year.  This priest asked the congregation, "If you call yourself a golfer, but only golf twice a year, are you really a golfer?"
  This homily was given at Easter, and the priest was imparting to us the importance of going to Mass more than twice a year; however, I have thought about it often over the years, and have gleaned a wider meaning in it than the priest might have intended.  Thus, as I originally asked myself, "Am I a Catholic if I only choose to worship in God's house twice a year?"  I now also ask,
"Am I a Christian if I do not observe His commandments?"
Am I a good person if I do not produce good fruit?"
"Am I a writer if I only write twice a year?  Or at all?"

To be honest, no.

I am not a writer, however much I desire to be, nor however many times I may call myself one.  I am not a writer, because I do not write.

So, this is me, writing.

I am committing to it, which means I am swallowing my pride and allowing this to be seen by others who will most likely judge my grammar, my spelling, many typos, and, most frightening of all, my heart.

I am simply going to write and let it be what it is, no matter what the consequences.

In an act of sheer bravery (or stupidity), I invite you to judge my words.  You read that correctly.

Correct me.  Keep me accountable.  If I do not write in a couple of days, call me on it.  Not because I think my words are so wonderful you cannot live without them, but because I need your help.  As an introvert, I tend to become a hermit and lose contact with the world.  I retreat within myself and I need help to come out.  I cannot promise to respond here.  I will not show corrections on my blog, but I will make notes, journal your suggestions, and thus, hopefully, improve my reasoning and my writing.
In return, I shall pray for you.  Please, let me know if there is something specific you would like for me to pray about.

Pax Christi,
Amelia

I am, therefore I write.

I once heard a priest say, "You can't call yourself a golfer if you only golf once or twice a year."


He was talking about C&E Catholics, but his words have haunted me for another reason. You see, ever since I was old enough to write my name, I have known I am supposed to be a writer. For reasons I will later share, I never pursued that vocation. The hopeful longing in my heart became a just-before-weeping ache, which the years have only served to sharpen, not dull. I have referred to myself as an aspiring writer, but I cannot in all honesty call myself any kind of writer or even an aspiring one if I never write, can I?

So here I am, starting my own blog like thousands of others. The purpose for my blog is partly to help me in exercising my rusty instrument, partly to keep me accountable. It is much more difficult to make excuses when I am not the only one reading my work. And I do hope you read it. I hope you stick around to read it more than once, and not just because you may know me in real life, but because you may catch a glimpse of yourself in my writing. I will be writing from my heart: may it ever reach yours.

I may amuse you. I may make you feel uncomfortable. At times, my writing will be raw, as painful for you to read as it was for me to write. We will cry together. Bear with me and we will also laugh together.
One of my favorite quotes is by St. Catherine of Siena:

“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.”

May my story inspire you to be who God meant you to be.

Let us set the world on fire together.