Imbued

Ever since I was a tiny child, I have wanted to be a writer. My first book was entitled "Dad's Book," which I both wrote and illustrated, and which featured a drawing of my dad standing in front of a barn wearing overalls. No, my dad had never done that (and still hasn't) but I choose to view that as a sign of my creativity, even at the tender age of 5.
By 8, I was writing my own memoirs, although I never got much further than the titles. A few I remember are "My Great Boring Life," and "Tales of the African What-What Bird," which sounds like it might be about something made up, but was actually referring to the fact that my mom had called me that one time because I guess I had a penchant for not hearing what people were saying and then yelling, "WHAT? WHAT?"
I'm trying to say that I wrote a lot, and have always wanted to be a writer.
Technically, I am a writer. I write on a regular basis. I don't do it for money, but I do it for a living. As in, I would probably die if I couldn't express myself using the written word. Heaven only knows I don't express myself well in the spoken one.
The other day I was thinking about how crazy it is that I'm actually good at the thing I love. One could make the argument that I love to write because I'm good at it, but that doesn't explain why I've loved writing before I could do it well. I loved writing even when I wrote things in my journal like,
"Oct 22 1999, Age 9
Today was bad. Aleks couldn't find his shoehe's so every one exepte him was looking for his shoe, mom calld pop & dad. After that she blue up she yeled at us all including me. Why me? I'm upset."
(Don't ask me how I knew how to spell "including" but not "yelled" or even "shoes.")
Worse yet, my journal also documents the angst and inner turmoil I suffered when, at age 11, I discovered that Aaron Carter didn't write his own music.
This is not the height of literature.
Somehow I managed to break through my hatred of my handwriting workbook (thank God for keyboards) and my inability to focus on anything that wasn't how angry I was at my siblings or how betrayed I felt by the music industry. Somehow I made it to college, where I've discovered that I have become, completely by accident, a writer.
How crazy is that?
How crazy is it that the one thing I want to be more than anything else in the world is the one thing at which I excel? The one thing I'm completely comfortable doing.
I know it's not an accident, obviously. I know it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with this God I worship, but still. I know people who want to be actors but who can't act their way out of a paper bag. I know people who want to be musicians but who can't carry a tune in a bucket. I know people who want to be original but only use worn out metaphors like "act their way out of a paper bag" and "can't carry a tune in a bucket." Seriously, though. Is there anything more torturous than wanting something with everything you've got in your finite little body and not being able to come anywhere near it?
I think I might be the luckiest person alive.