I told my husband that I wanted to write a book.

I told my husband that I want to write a book. The truth is I have no idea what I would write about. I like the feeling of stroking my fingers against the keys of the keyboard, and seeing where my mind takes me. I do wonder what kind of book would capture an audience, but deep down I don’t actually care. The catharsis of writing in and of itself is enough. At least, it should be.

Yet, there is more to my dream than the completion of writing. The accomplishment of finishing something and sharing that work with others. The vulnerability of opening myself up to criticism, good and bad. The discipline to remain consistent as the time will pass whether I write anything or not. The endless choices of topics that make it difficult to narrow down a singular focus or stick to an overall theme. The discovery that I’m actually a terrible writer and the years of “untapped potential” was just a fantasy.

Where should I go with all my musings? I am a woman. I am Black. I am a Christian. I am an immigrant. I am a sister. I am a wife. I am a daughter. I am a friend. I am an artist. I am not done. I could write one book about all of these things, or many books about each of these things. Or I could write nothing at all. Because one day, I will be that too.

I can imagine it, but can I will it? Will the time spent be worth what comes with it? Can I face my self doubt and overcome the fears that have hindered me? Or will I drown in it instead?

I told my husband that I want to write a book. I want to write about being a new wife. Write about being a daughter of Black immigrants. About being a Christian. Sister. Friend. I want to write in a way that proves I'm the artist I’ve always imagined myself to be. I want to write in a way that never finishes, to let my words outlive me and let my message spread. That my poetry is not simple idioms thrown together on a page, but meaningful expressions received by individuals who can relate. This catharsis isn’t a selfish act but an avenue of public service.

For my dream is to be a public servant. My real dream is to listen and help solve problems. My real dream is to spread love. Can I do that with 600 words on a page? Am I qualified to do that at all? What will I add to this world already full of so much that it is impossible to consume everything? What will my words say that hasn’t already been said before?

There are revelations of myself that I am afraid to unveil. To write, the significance of which will depend on a pressing of myself that must take place. A pressing, crushing, molding. Until I am unrecognizable. Is that not how I grow? Through transformation. It's a mystery to become who we are meant to be without abandoning who we are in a world where who we are is the question of our lives.

What will happen to my words if no one reads them? Can my dream come true if I am a failure? I imagine myself a servant, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to push the boundaries that have kept me safe thus far. In order to reach a greater end. Yet, my stumbling through this dream may be just that. Momentarily losing balance, but a necessary motion to find my true footing.

I told my husband that I want to write a book. The truth is, I already have.