And So, I Write

I am a writer.
It is something I have known, deep within myself, for my entire life.
The gift I have been given, as a writer, came with me to this life, from the pre-existence. 
That reality reverberates within my heart each time I contemplate the truth of that statement.
For me, the question that I desire to answer is not "Will I write?", instead, the answer I seek is "WHAT will I write?".
My days are filled with searching, seeking the words that put my feelings, my thoughts, my impressions, into the world in a way that others can understand and relate to.
Amid the routines (and the surprises) that caring for a large family bring to my life, I see words that jump out at me, sentences that replay themselves in my mind, and phrases that warm my heart.
And so I write.
I write sporadically, in various places.
Sometimes a scribbled note in a margin of a book, or on a loose paper is enough to suffice, to quell the desire to create, for a time. 
Other times, the words spill out, flowing easily from my mind, coming out just so, and reflecting the thoughts of my mind perfectly.
And sometimes, I sit, waiting for the words to come forth.
Struggling to get the thoughts to flow and piece themselves together in some order, some semblance of order that will make sense to myself, and perhaps, eventually, to others.
And sometimes, the words don't come.
Yet still, I write.
Haltingly,
unsure of the direction I should go,
following the impression, no, more than that, following the certainty, the assuredness I have within...
the certainty that despite my weaknesses and my insecurities,
I am a writer.
Yesterday,
Today,
and Tomorrow. 
Seeking my voice, desirous to know what it is exactly I need to do with this God-given talent and knowledge.
Hoping that the journey and the detours it will present will reveal answers to my mind and to my soul and help me find the voice, the story that needs to be told.
I am a writer.
And so, I write.