Unequivocal contentment. An undeniable sense of self-assurance prompted by the confidence that comes from picking up a pen. An unquenchable thirst for words. These are the symptoms of being bitten by the writing bug. They come on quick, with a strength so overwhelming, yet welcomed with ease, for bearing the responsibilities of writing is the most joyful of afflictions.

I don't know when exactly I was bitten by the writing bug, but I know it's effect has been very apparent for several years now. I was a reader first (a title I concurrently wear with that of being a writer), my love for books and words springing from the garden of books that I began to plant at a very young age. They blossomed every corner of my bedroom, flowering outward with such diversity, such uniqueness, that I knew the garden was completely my own.

I picked them, like flowers, always pulling together a special bouquet to be placed on the nightstand next to my bed, a smaller collection of stories to be combed through in the following days. Some with new mystique, others, their paper petals tattered from having been read and in turn, loved.

Like a favorite flower, certain books always were included in that bedside bouquet, their words like a familiar journey home. The words from those books floated, like the tops of dandelions, effortlessly and gracefully from the page in my hands to my head, and in that sense, to my heart.

I don't know exactly when I was bitten by the writing bug, but if I had to guess, I would assume it was somewhere inside that book garden, surrounded by the words of writers from years past, who planted the seeds that would grow into the books that became my greatest inspiration. They just happened to use a pen instead of a shovel. What I do know, however, is that there was no coming back from that bite.

I think the writing bug flew silently and landed on me without me really knowing. One moment I was reading and then suddenly, bitten, infected by a love for words that hasn't dissipated since. Writing is my biggest passion, so much so that I know I need to pursue it as a career. And, I find great comfort in knowing that I will love what I do. So I'll wield my pen like a shovel, hoping to plant words that grow blossom into flowers that someone else can pick.

Last Christmas my mom gave me a necklace with a quote from William Wordsworth that said, "Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." Simply put, yet elegantly expletive of the entire point of writing. To take what is inside you and get it down on paper somehow. And while it is not a physically draining endeavor, it may be one of the most emotional ones.

To vulnerably open yourself up to the scrutiny of other's opinions, to allow for critique. It's quite scary. But, you also open yourself up to changing someone's world, much like authors of my favorite books changed mine. Your words, those "breathings of your heart" may very well breathe the life into someone else. Quite a worthwhile pursuit don't you think?

So, as I said, I'm not exactly sure how the writing bug bit me, or when it happened. But I am so glad that it did. So, watch out, it may very well bite you too.