I am a born writer. From the day God spoke me into being and released me into this world, I have been a writer. He placed in me everything necessary to be who I am. If you cut me, I bleed ink. It is the core of who I am. I am a writer.

Then, stuff happened.

My mother became mentally ill. I have never really wrote those exact words before. My father and grandmother, two major influencers in my life, were always very careful not to use those words.

They said my mother was “sick” or that she had a “nervous breakdown” or that she was “having a bad day.” Sometimes her bad days lasted for months and necessitated her going to the state mental hospital on more than one occasion.

She was manic depressive with schizophrenic tendencies. She was mentally ill.

Growing up I only remember making excuses for my mother. And taking on much more responsibility than a child should. But I was the oldest and a girl.

During the 50s and 60s girls were considered just younger versions of women and magically endowed with all the abilities of adult women as far as cleaning, cooking, washing and taking care of children was concerned.

I was a caregiver from the time I was 2 ½ and my little brother was born. Then, when I was 8 and my little sister was born I stepped in to be more of a caregiver.

Being a caregiver is something I know how to do.  Today, I am a professional caregiver with two mentally challenged young women living in my home.

It is how I make a living. It was supposed to free me to find time to write. An,d even though I can find times to write, it always seems there is something else that needs my attention first.

If it’s not my job, then it is volunteer efforts, giving my time to help others, writing articles or designing publications for others. As a trained journalist and publications editor, these are things I can do in my sleep. And yet they are only tremendous substitutes.

A caregiver, a journalist, a helper, though, is not what I am at the core of my being. There is a wooing, a beckoning, a burning deep within to write a book.  Not just any book but the book about my story.

Always the stuff of life gets in my way.  And I am thrown back into the frey of making a living and taking care of everyone and everything except me.

“As I unclutter my life, I free myself to answer the callings of my soul.” This is so true for me right now, today. I must prioritize my time, redeem the time. Life is short. We only get one shot at it.

Psalms 90:12 says it well, “Teach us to make the most of our time, so that we may grow in wisdom.”

There are so many good causes, things I would like to be involved in, things I am involved in, other things that pull me.  But I know it will take concentrated time in order to do write the story that screams within me.

Maya Angelou says, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”  I know the reality of this; the weight of this. Sometimes I think if I don’t do this, I will surely die.

All my life has been about writing other people’s stories. Now, I feel it is the time to write mine.  I know how to write. I have no qualms about that part. That is not the problem.

I have been writing this story since the day I was born. It will be an easy story to write but to start it is the most difficult part. Once I start, I must go forward. There is no turning back even though there will be those who disagree with what I write. In essence, that perhaps is the reason I fear starting.

God says perfect love casts out fear. So I will allow Him to take care of the fear and I will start.

I will start. I must start. I will start. I will.

I am a born writer.

How do overcome the fear that something you write may be controversial? Leave a comment on the website. I’d love to hear how you deal with this issue.