I sit here, staring out my window to a crystallized world, trying to figure out what to write about. I start typing something, find it not only egregious but (shall we say) uninspired, and I start all over again. I do this at least ten times before I finally settle on writing exactly what I'm feeling. That I don't want to write. I don't want to do what I love. Say what?

My tumultuous love affair with writing began when I was just a little girl, probably about 8 or 9. I remember Mr. Humble assigned a short story writing project. He said that "It only needs to be as long as a dog's tail," which meant it could be as long or as short as I, the creator, deemed necessary. I remember I started writing, and kept writing, and kept writing until it was nearly 15 pages in length. I started a rudimentary foundation of building characters, setting scenes and moving the plot forward. I remember getting the paper back with a big, red A+ on the top. I was ecstatic; I was elated, I was in love.

Fast forward to high school, and I'd completed the first drafts of two, separate novel series (in total 5 books). I was on cloud 9; I figured that writing would always be a part of who I was. During high school, I wrote religiously for the yearbook and was fortunate enough to serve as editor-in-chief my senior year. I let up a bit in my fiction writing because life was already beginning to pull at me. Family, friends, softball, God, they all clamored for my devout attention. During the latter half of my senior year, my passion for writing was waning, and I had to force myself to write.

Two months after graduating high school, my family and I suffered the devastating loss of my father. Needless to say, I wish I would have written about it back when it happened. I think it would have proven therapeutic. Anyways, a month after losing dad, I was thrust into the college scene and assaulted with endless, terrifying questions. What did I want to do for the rest of my life? Who was I going to be? Where did I want my life to go? Believing, rather naively, that stability was always paramount over happiness, I pursued a degree that could fit well in the clinical or recreational settings of health care--exercise physiology.

One degree and one year of being in the medical field later, I discovered that--whoops--my 18-year-old self didn't know it all. I had gotten a degree I didn't love, and it surely didn't love me. Thankfully, my family and husband spotted my unhappiness and encouraged me to go back to school.

I'm thankful I did. I got the degree that I should have. Ironically enough, I still have to force myself to write, to do something that I know I love to do. Why? Well, I guess life is no small reason. Anything worth doing isn't always going to be easy, even something you absolutely adore. I write consistently now, for multiple platforms, and look forward to a professional career as a writer.

I don't fear the tyranny of the blank page anymore. I don't fear the rhythmic blink of the immobile cursor. All I have to do is write.