I've spent most of my life feeling different, but I've accepted it over the years, and one of these things that me feel different is my passion for writing, to which most people are boggled and awed at my determination to have my very own words in the New York Times.
In fact one person even predicted my future and told me I'd be a poor writer living in a crappy apartment and working odd jobs in between articles I write.
To which I responded, So I'll write about how I live in a crappy apartment and work odd jobs, what's your point? Besides, who says that's actually going to happen? Last I checked you aren't fortune teller.
Needless to say, it's been a dream of mine to meet someone who loves writing as much as I do. To not be met with this fear or surprise of my aspirations, but to be understood.
And today, as I read my best friend's new blog, I realized that I've known that person all along, because our love for writing is the same.
She writes,
"When I ask the question, why make a blog when probably no one will read this, and I might be talking to myself. Well, it is because eventually with all the sardonic and absolute non sencesical things I might say, someone will read it, some strange person will somehow find this blog on Google, and then I will be heard."
And reading these eloquent words, I was reminded of why I write, and how different it is from hers, and how it didn't matter. Because all in all, the passion is the same. The love is there.
And it made me realize just how different and similar people can be, how you and someone else can love the same thing, but for contrasting reasons.
So no, Kinyanna and I don't write about the same things, and we have voices that are our very own, but knowing that we both have the dream of seeing our name in print one day, of making writing something we can spend our lives doing, it's inspiring.
And she's right; her voice does deserve to be heard, and can be at:
Maybe you'll be inspired too.
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