All my life I’ve been a writer. Not the exciting, become-famous, write-great-works-of-fiction kind of writer. Nope. I admire them tremendously, but that will never be me. The words that live inside me are the kind that tell true tales, works of inspiration and information and contemplation. Words that analyze and make compelling arguments for action. I can’t help composing strings of words that flow together in my head, nonstop. Phrases with alliteration, description, and meaning. Around the clock, my brain is unwittingly composing.
In high school, I earned my first $500 in a writing contest on a topic of political analysis. My college, grad school, and career writing continued in that vein, with written works published and awards earned. My words helped change public policy and public opinion, helped teach young people and old, helped train and motivate and educate. At times, my words even inspired.
My words earned money and recognition. Yet they didn’t leave a legacy. At least not the kind that holds meaning for me now.
Now I’m thrilled to help others use words in giving meaning to a life well lived, to help good people recall the past and reflect on the present, to capture and preserve tales of legacy.
I used to seek inspiration for the words in my head. Now the words come from others telling their tales. Now the words inspire me.
Don’t leave your tale untold…