They're all just words. Or are they?

I stare at my computer trying to decide what to write about. I love how the keyboard feels beneath my fingers. I smile to myself because I never fancied myself a writer. Not once did I ever look at myself in the mirror and say, "April, you are going to be a writer one day."

Yet, here I sit trying to decide which part of my heart to pour into my tiny little corner of the internet. Here I sit planning on one day writing a book with hopes that people will fall in love with my words as I have fallen in love with other people's words.

Maybe I'll be funny today, I think. I like being funny. And I'm pretty damn good at it. Or. Maybe I will try to touch someone with my words. If one young gay person reads my words and knows that It Gets Better, and that everything will be okay, then I consider my whole writing career a success. Or. Maybe I'll make people cry. Not that I particularly like making people cry, but I do like making people feel things. Or. Maybe I'll just randomly write.

I smile again.

I realize that it doesn't really matter what I write about. It doesn't matter if I'm funny or sad or inspiring because I write here for me. Mostly. And I write here because it makes me feel better. Those moments when I'm writing give me such a satisfaction that no "job" has ever given me before. My writing, at least for now, is for me.

I get up. I look at myself in the mirror and I say, "April, you've become a writer."

No, it doesn't really matter what I write about, I think again. As long as I Just Write.

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