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A post shared by Emma Tait (@emmarosetait) on Apr 4, 2018 at 11:19am PDT

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*Warning: naughty language ahead!
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I want to be a great fucking writer

the kind you put down your life for

when there are new words to pick up

I want to be the kind of writer who makes sense of life

and nonsense

but wait

aren’t those the same thing?

I want to write such great things

that your eyes

heart

fingers

soul

and mouth devour them all

and are still

always

hungry for

I want to write line after line

that sparks fire

and joy

that transforms you

into being reborn

and that call your spirit home

from where you laid it down

I want to be a great fucking writer

but it’s not what you think

not that I care what you think

except of course

that I do

because

I am

a writer after all

I want to be a great writer

but not at filling shelves

or bestseller lists

though that would certainly pay the bills

no

I want to be great

at letting my words shout

take up space

mourn and lament their losses

and express all the ways that grief has swallowed them whole

even the small griefs that feel big

and so are

like the incremental heartbreaks

of texts gone unresponded

I want to be great

at trying

I want to be great

at showing up

to my pen and my paper

and saying

show me what you’ve got today

I want to be great at loading up

at stepping up

into the street at high noon

with the devil in me

and being quicker to the draw

I want to be great

at following my feelings

at sitting down with them

in a field of wild flowers

and letting them know

we have all the time in the world

to get it right

and that I’ll keep listening

even if we don’t

I want to be great

at witnessing

the soft vulnerable underbelly of humanity

and the armor and cruelty we’ve built to protect it

I want to be great at keeping my eyes wide

goddamn open enough to witness it all

and brave enough to share it

using all the colours

that only my pen can see

I want to be great

at the everyday  

at keeping the song of my art tuned in

to what really matters

like sweeping the deck in the spring sunshine

brushing my teeth in the shower with my lover

and feeling my true pulse again

after giving up the bright lights that blinded me from it

in place of being really seen

from my head down to my toes

I want to be great at holding that space

for my words to steadily and sometimes rebelliously

commit to their shape

great at holding it the way I hold wet clay

as it spins round and round

filling my fingernails with all that it releases

that is not its truth

That’s what it means to be a great fucking writer

I want to be a great fucking writer

and so

I am.

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