You are a writer. You didn’t choose to be one, but rather it was born into you—a spirit as old as dwelled in the storytellers around the first fires. When they wove their imaginations in mysterious and delightful ways, akin to prophets, philosophers, and visionaries. That old fire is inside of you, burning its way out. And if you don’t write it down, it will find another way. Like every force of nature, it will find a way out. So write your little heart out.
The rest of the world doesn’t get you, and you don’t really belong to it. You’re not one of them and you never will be. You don’t think alike, and they know it. Your speech is strange to their ears, your anecdotes are odd, your propensity toward reflection and solitude confuses them. Your obsession with words is just weird. So write your little heart out.
Life brings hard times even in the best of them. You’ll get passed over, ignored, hurt, and beaten down. You’ll get sick, tired, and old, and lose your friends and family as they get sick, tired, and old. People will betray you, lie, cheat, and steal from you. You’ll work yourself to the bone in a never ending cycle of work, sleep, eat, and repeat. You’ll be a success at all the things that bring you no joy. And you’re not alone as we all tread out this grind in the world. The people around you will find their ways to cope, throwing themselves into work, exercise, and play. But as for you, you write your little heart out.
Ever since you were young, even the little things moved you. The joy of sunsets, the emotions of others, the magic of books. Your life is your story, and as it got written down in the memories of your mind you remembered every detail like a treasured book. The successes, the failures, the hurts, and the victories—all written down in the chapters of your life. A river so massive that nothing can stop it. You dwell on the past, and the story that is you because it is story that drives you. So write your little heart out.