A chilly wind whipped around my two friends and I as we rushed from the car into the small downtown book shop. The musty aroma of old books greeted us as we swung the door open and stepped into what almost felt like another world. You couldn’t help but feel you were about to make a discovery, and so we stepped forward brushing the cold off behind us. We browsed the shop with its stacks of books and narrow isles of wall to wall dark wood book shelves. The prices were very reasonable which would explain the arm lode I ended up with in the end. I approached the old man at the counter, prepared to make my final selection and probably spend a little more than I should. He looked over his speckticals and casually struck up a conversation. I couldn’t help but think of him as a rather grumpy Santa Clause with his neatly trimmed white beard and portly midsection. He was a writer. I quickly announced that I was too, but when he asked me what I was writing these days, I had to admit that other than a journal entry here or there, I really wasn’t writing much. He shook his head, “Then you are not a writer.” I was slightly taken-a-back. He went on to explain that being a writer is not what you do it is who you are, and if it is who you are than it is something that you will do everyday whenever you possibly can! I was challenged and slightly ashamed. We bought our books and exited his stirring words still echoing in my mind. I felt like I was in a movie (nothing dramatic, something more along the lines of a Halmark movie) the setting, the dialogue, the characters--and there I was the star at the climax faced with the life altering decision. Who was I really? haha, it was kind of perfect really.
Well, here I am, choosing to be a writer. I plan to delve into political issues, religious issues, and everyday life challenges. Basically solve the world’s problems, or at least discuss them...one blog post at a time.
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