I was never the one who wrote

I used to think I was the one who wrote.

My hands, my brain, 

my wordsmithery.

It felt so good to call myself a writer.
That’s right, that’s me.

I believed in inspiration. 

In co-creation.
The universe brought ideas, and I, the writer, brought them to life.
Added humor, a light touch, an intelligent observation.

There was a real person doing real writing.

Being a writer became part of my identity.
Perhaps the thing I identified with the most.
(For sure the thing I identified with the most.)

Writing gave me purpose.
I loved it.
Sometimes proud of what I wrote.
Sometimes surprised.
Sometimes indifferent.

Writing was life.
My life.

Until something shifted.

Slowly, the idea of being a separate person doing the writing disappeared.
Slowly, the realization—

There is no separation.
No writing.
No writer.
No me.

All of it is Life pretending—
to be ‘me,’
to be ‘my’ words,
to be ‘my’ books,
to be ‘my’ belief in ‘my’ identity as a writer.

It was never mine.
Never me.

Even though identities dissolved, 

nothing feels lost. 

In its place, there was relief.
Freedom.
And so. 

Much. 

Effortlessness.

Writing is no longer something I do.
Writing is something that’s being done.

I sit.
I type.
Words appear.

Love,

P.S. You can find my books here. 

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