In this reader, there is a writer.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered my passion for writing.  It may have been in the innocent diary entries I wrote as a pre-teen, or perhaps the  gossipy letters written to my friends and passed within the halls at school.  I don't know if my passion began when I was younger, or as I matured.  But what I do know now is that writing has given me a purpose.

It's become this release of thoughts and emotions that I've held inside.  Am I writing 600 page novels? Not hardly.  But I have been journaling my thoughts (very random thoughts, I might add) almost daily.  Sometimes they evolve into a section of a story I have yet to write, or maybe it's a poem that I've conjured up based on a few words that refuse to leave my mind.  Whatever the reasons, or the products for my writing - it's there, it's happening.  I am writing.

As I continue my education in becoming a teacher (Middle School Language Arts, to be exact), I am realizing more and more the power a pen holds -- or keyboard depending on which medium your writing is taking place.  I hope to instill this release into my future students and show them how therapeutic writing can be.  Or how silly, amazing, hysterical, purposeful and random it can be as well.

Do yourself a favor and write something today.  It can be anything, or nothing at all.  Who knows - you may have that next best-seller just waiting to be told.  Or, you may find peace to write that letter to someone you've been meaning to for far too long.  Whatever the reason, just write.

This is a very tiny excerpt from the story I've been writing. It may never be anything but a mess of words I wrote down, but they're still my words - words I am proud of.

While Max shuts off the coffee maker and washes the used dishes, I walk around the coffee shop wiping down tables and sweeping the floor. Somewhere in the back I notice the music has turned up louder than normal and a familiar song echos through the speakers.

Max walks over to the front door, locking it and turning off the inside lights. The glow from the neighboring lamp posts outside filter in through the front windows. I'm about to unplug the twinkling Christmas lights that are decorated throughout, when Max stops me.

"Leave those on."

He grabs the broom from me, placing it against the wall. While moving in closer, he takes my right hand, cupping it in his, and places it against his chest. With his other hand, he grabs my hip and pulls me in to his warm, personal space. Suddenly, our bodies are slowly swaying back and forth to the music that is seeping out, blanketing the tiny coffee shop with a beautiful melody.

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain, there is healing
In your name, I find meaning*

The lyrics wash over me and I am reminded of what I have right here in front of me; a boy who sincerely cares about me. I may be broken, but I'm still breathing.

*lyrics from Lifehouse's song Broken.