Write.

So you want to be a writer? Well, then write.

That's it?

Makes sense, doesn't it? You want to be a swimmer, you swim. You want to be a singer, you sing. You want to be fighter, you fight. Want to be a builder, you build. You want to be a writer, write. Simple.
But not.

What do I write about? Can I just sit down and write? No inspiration pushing me, driving me, compelling me to write? Who wants to read scribbles and babble? Do I not need a reason to write? A mission? A point, a goal?

What is your goal? To be a writer. Then write.

But that's not it-- is it?

No, you don't want to be a writer. You love to write. But more than that, you love to change. To change yourself, to be changed, to feel yourself and see yourself changed. But just as much, you love to change others. You love to, you desire so badly for others to join you in change. To live the change you've felt in your heart. That's your heart-- your passion. Have I got it?

No. You got part of it. It's deeper. Much deeper. For I see within myself no change. And that's what drives my desire to write. Notice: I say within myself. Yeah, I've changed much on the outside. Hair. Clothes. Music. Other things maybe. That's change you can put a finger on. Only a finger. But the heart . . .

Scars. And spreading like a leprous scab is a scar that gathers its covering across my heart to prevent change, to retard passion, to suffocate love. And all my radical, sincere, passionate outward change is discovered to be merely an emotional wave that washes over my face leaving a new piece of the facade with each new inundation.

So where does that leave me? Desiring to change? Of course. But isn't everyone? How strongly do I desire to change? Or should I ask, How deeply do I love the warm, calming shallow water? And somehow it helps to know I'm not alone. For as Mark Hall confesses, we are both

“Fearless warriors in a picket fence,
reckless abandon wrapped in common sense,
deep water faith in the shallow end.”

And though our eyes are “wide open to the differences” we are trapped in the strongest web of all-- our desires . . . for the picket fence; for the natural, instinctual common sense; for that easy and calm shallow end.

That's why I want to write. To change. To tell you not to be like them-- or me. To lift up my shirt, reveal my scabby, scarred heart. To remind myself of the passion I once was. To try once again to convince myself . . . to change.

That's it.