I am not a writer [Cheryl]

I remember the first time I read William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech where he expressed his passion for writing stories about “the human heart in conflict with itself.” I found I had much in common with Faulkner. Like him, I was intrigued by human behavior and had an intense desire to understand what motivates us.


This obsession with the need to know why, to understand the inner workings of the heart that compel us to great sacrifice and great selfishness, first led me to a love for literature. So I spent many years enjoying other people’s writing and even pursuing degrees that would allow me professional credibility and a means of income for doing what I loved best, discussing the human condition as it is depicted in literature.

I never saw myself as a writer; it was enough for me to simply enjoy and seek insight from the words penned by others. But something has changed over the last few years. I find growing within my own heart a passion for the art of writing.


Always the teacher, I write as an avenue to share life lessons with others. Selfishly, I also write to purge, to vent feelings I can’t otherwise cope with or understand. I write for emotional healing and well being, to clarify what God is teaching me. And ultimately, I write because I believe, as pompous as it may sound, that God has given me something that He would have me share in this most challenging and rewarding of mediums.


So while I haven’t dreamed of writing from my earliest memories, or even identified myself as a writer, I suppose I am one.