When I first used a tool to write, I scribbled something on a piece of paper. At that moment, I became hooked on the idea of putting my thoughts on display. I literally came out of my mother’s womb with the passion to write. While sticking a fork in a socket, I wrote the instructions warning other kids not to do it. It hurts. Realizing that I had a mind that never stopped thinking, I got bullied in English class for wearing a fancy orchestra shirt. Catching on to my talent the English teacher put me in honors English classes but my somewhat dreams of writing a high school masterpiece got slashed when I got transferred to another school. Heavy into church, I wrote about everything, I even painted pictures of the fancy temples that I spent my entire childhood visiting. In Sunday school, every teacher wanted me in their class because I seemed to have the gift to stir up some great conversations about theology. I found out that I was different when I got in my first relationship because I would always end up tormented by the fact that girls were very hard to understand. In my downtime, I wrote about it. I wrote about everything. When I was happy, I wrote. When I was sad, I wrote. Broken hearted, with nothing to eat, and even in disarray, I, for some odd reason just couldn’t stop writing. I think I scared a girl off that I had a crush on in high school because I was just so creative. I just had a thing for fashion trends, dancing, and using my artistic talents. I literally invented my prom outfit. Sadly, the paint didn’t dry in time on my cain, but I made it work. Her mother was an English teacher; she loved me, but I think her daughter hated me. I was willing to do anything to have her mother teach me good grammar, but in my quest, I’m sure I was made fun of. It was amazing how I always found myself in odd situations as a child growing into an adult. Somehow, I ended up publishing my first manuscript fresh out of high school. I considered myself a writer willing to write about everything, but since I was raised in the church, I wrote about Christianity. I gave up on the idea of being published by a major publisher because they were too busy trying to make money so I spent all of my money shelf-publishing manuscripts. While everyone else spent their money on the things that they so much desired, there I was publishing my thoughts. My grandmother loved my preaching, I had the gift, but I don’t think a lot of people understood how a child prodigy could tell grown men what to do at the time. Sadly, I shied away from that dream once I started reading more. After a terrible injury in the military, sadly, my mind went blank, but I somehow got better by reading the Bible. My advice to anyone gifted as a child is that when you face off against a psychologist, it’s best to not be creative. Just be quiet. I’m smiling at the thought because the moment they pulled out those black and white blot boards that’s the moment the medication came out because I saw everything differently. It was weird because my entire youth life was spent creating things and writing, but when the gift disappeared it was like some angelic force just wanted to see what a strange little human like me would do. Trapped inside of my body for 2-5 years with no creativity was torture. I begged God for my gifts back. I did everything, I prayed, went to classes, and I even would go into hospital chapels and fight with God to give me my gift back. I’m sure whatever force was on the other side got a kick out of me screaming and conjuring up the holy ghost in a small chapel room by himself while sick people were roaming around the hospital in need of a miracle. I think I fought so hard one day that lightning struck outside. They had to call the nuns and priest, people were literally falling to their knees hoping for God’s presence in their life while I screamed inside of a little small chapel room head banging to gospel hits. An entire cloud surrounded the hospital, ironically, I got my gift back, but, sadly, the hospital shutdown soon after. Each night I would fall to sleep on the floor by the computer at home waiting for a thought to write down, then one night, my gift to write just came back. Just like that, I was back at it, writing one million books. I even opened up my own publishing and production business.
I would say, “The End,” but I’m still writing. My message to anyone reading this is that even if you don’t believe in anything, I’m living proof that God keeps his promises. I’m still writing. ✍️
I wrote 1 million books. I’m swimming in a digital lake with paper and ink everywhere.
