Remember the first time you picked up a pen —
not for a grade, not for a task —
but because something inside you stirred?
A soft whisper, a nudge telling you to write.
And remember the way your thoughts, once scattered,
suddenly found rhythm,
as your hand –trembling,
tried to keep up with your heart?
Did it matter then if anyone else would read it?
Of course not. It was Pure.
Alive and — You.
I remember sitting beside her —
a novelist whose name sits on spines across the world —
and telling her, shyly,
that I loved to write too.
That I had an idea blooming in my chest.
She turned to me, eyes bright, and said,
“Then write it. Even if it’s just a word a day, a sentence — write.
Because you said it’s for your father,
and that means it’s honest. It matters.
His story needs to be heard.”
She smiled and added, half-jokingly,
“Or I’ll write it for you!”
There are so many stories in this life
that ache to be written,
that deserve to be read.
So write.
Just write.
Because not writing —
in this world growing ever more mechanical,
cold, and fast —
feels like going quiet in a room
where your soul came to speak.
Even if no one else reads it…
write anyway.