I didn’t choose the life of a writer.

The life of a writer chose me.

It’s like a gift that’s sent on the overnight express by FedEx.

Sometimes it’s a little banged up.

Sometimes it’s not even what you ordered.

Maybe you wanted a stuffed pink unicorn or a blue iPod cause you’re out of date or maybe you asked for happiness.

And instead, when you opened the box, you saw Writing.

Now Writing is shy and timid and only seems alive at two o’clock in the morning on a school night after you have been trying to probe her into conversation for days.

Writing is bad at time like that.

She also just popped a really good idea into your head but, if you don’t write it down in the next five seconds, Writing will pop the idea right out again.

And will not pop it back in until two o’clock in the morning on a school night.

Writing never helps you with English homework because she is too passive to be persuasive and too vague to be explanatory. 

But Writing is fiercely loyal. 

Writing is there when your favorite young adult author mysteriously fails to include a sex scene with your OTP.

Writing is there because Larry Stylinson is a thing.

Writing is there when that little voice in your head beautifully and poetically narrates the falling of an orange leaf through the misty air and onto the dew-soaked tips of yellowing grass below.

Writing is there when the sun goes up and down.

Writing is there when the moon goes up and down.

Writing is always there.

Writing is there when the demons come to dance in the moonlight.

And when the shadows stretch at high noon.

She’s there in the dark recess of your mind where you thought only monsters lived.

She’s there when you can’t get that thing that happened last Tuesday at one forty-five in the afternoon out of your head.

And she’s there when you can’t get your grandfather out of it either. 

She’s there when you feel like no one else in the entire world really is.

But Writing is judged.

She’s the girl that walks into class with a lacey red bead-filled scarf and dorky glasses and high knee socks and a jean-on-jean outfit.

She’s the girl that’s nice to everyone but is misunderstood by almost everyone.

She’s the girl that is voted most likely to succeed in high school-

If she has a backup plan. 

She’s the girl who sticks her head in the clouds and dreams of days when she can walk the earth in complete and utter harmony with everything and everyone-

But she’s also the girl with a hand in the dirt, pulling the demons out and showing them in a new light.

Writing is told she needs to be a real person.

One who can actually make money in this world, because, hey, times are tough man, and spending her entire time writing down things that she feels for things that she cares about, writing with her heart on her sleeve is no way to make a living in this world.

Writing is the girl in high school that has a large group of close friends.

Writing is the girl who says hi to everyone-

But people rarely ever say hi back.

Writing is like an unexpected FedEx package that arrives on a Monday morning-

When a little sunshine is sorely needed.

She’s there for us at two o’clock in the morning-

And at two o’clock in the afternoon.

Writing doesn’t judge us and we don’t judge Writing because, crazy enough, Writing is the only girl in this damn establishment that truly understands us.

So no, none of us chose the life of a writer.

Yet we fell in love with Writing anyway.

And Writing loved us back.