Against all odds

I think we all have days like that.

Where the thought of writing fills our soul with dread.
The idea of others reading the words in our heads is scarier than any monster under the bed.
We want to shrink away. Be small and hide.
Even if the words are burning inside.
No matter how long we’ve slaved away or how much praise we receive.
There’s that little voice that makes it hard to believe.
Those unlike us assume it’s easy. Pen to paper, and nothing more.
They’ve never even attempted to knock on that door.
Yet we persist.
Hammering against all that resists.
Ideas, time, but mostly ourselves.
We fight against odds with a dream of filling bookshelves.
Even when all hope is lost. The ideas have left our head.
The pages are empty. They claim our art is dead.
We all have days when it’s easier to quit.
Give up. Find a career that requires not brain power or wit.
Yet we persist.
Because what we know in our hearts we can’t resist.

We are fighters, against all odds we resist.
We are writers, because the urge to create art is too powerful not to persist.

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