Word Conductor

I used to pretend I could read. I would open a book and invent a story, all the while telling my brother I was reading to him. When I was 6 years old, I learned how to read, for real this time. I was 8 when my Dad read The Hobbit to me for the first time. That same year I wrote my first story.
In the years that followed, I would reread The Hobbit again and again. I would also discover legions of other books. I fell in love with literature numberless times. I would find myself lost in a book more often than in reality. 
When I was 12 years old I started writing the novel that would become my greatest passion. That same year I won an award called the Future Novelist Merit Award. It was the moment my English teacher told me that I would be the next Tolkien that I realized this was all I wanted to be.
In the years that followed that aspiration never faltered. Just when I thought writers block had gotten the best of me I would stumble upon more passion to sustain me. Pages get caught in my hurricane. Pencils get shredded to the stub. Notebooks get inked. What once was blank and paper-thin is made bountiful enough to get lost in.
Then, everything changed, and as a result, I stopped writing.
My year away from writing changed my life completely. No pages were filled. My finger tips became unfamiliar with pencils. Words began to fall off pages. Sentences were left unfinished. And I, the girl that used to dance and breathe with words, I think she forgot how to feel. 
I searched for life in a lot of places. I looked for a substance that could fill a void. But I could not fill oceans with water droplets. I could not rage a storm without breathing. I could not fill pages without passion.
So, instead of writing about life, I started to write about death. Instead of writing about emotion, I learned to write about the pain of not feeling anything.
Somewhere in that fight, I heard his calling. I always wondered where this passion came from, and now I asked myself where it was that I had lost it. The Lord called out to me, and that was when I rediscovered my sustainer.  
This is my calling, and I am the listener. Now I have discovered that I cannot cease to fall in love with this aspiration. Plot holes have been filled with mountains. Writers block has been blown away by breezes, and the words have found me yet again.
My palms are stained with pencil. My finger tips are tinted with ink. They have called me book worm, but really I am the aspiration of a master novelist. These words are my addiction. These words tell me that I am still alive. These words, they are my catastrophe, and he is the conductor.