Author’s Note: Wealthy in Ink, Rich in Spirit

"I'm not speaking from arrogance or pride I fully recognize my own limitations."

Author’s Note: Wealthy in Ink, Rich in Spirit

By Kateb Shunnar

Truth is, I never set out to be a writer. I didn’t wake up one day with some grand plan or bold ambition to leave my mark on the world. I write because it’s what I was given. It chose me before I had the words to describe what it even was. It's not something I boast about it’s something I carry, carefully and gratefully.

The gift of words was never about recognition. It's about responsibility. A quiet one. A sacred one. Something whispered into my spirit during the hardest seasons, when I felt most unseen, most unsure. Even then, the Creator was speaking. Gently. Patiently. Waiting for me to stop running and sit still long enough to hear.

Oh, and trust me I ran. When I first felt that calling, I didn’t want it. I pushed it away. I tried to outrun it like it was a storm I didn’t want to get caught in. I told myself it wasn’t for me, that I wasn’t qualified. I hid behind other things. Other people. Other ideas. But no matter how fast or far I ran, the Creator always caught me. Always brought me right back to the page. Right back to the words. Right back to the truth I was born to carry.

It’s humbling, really how patient God is. How persistent love can be when it’s divine. The Creator didn’t shame me. Just kept showing up, whispering, reminding, nudging. And eventually, I stopped running. I stopped fighting what was already mine to do.

I’ve been blessed with strong roots. One of those roots was my grandmother, Celestine Lord, what a woman she was. She was the kind of lady who could hush a room with just one look and stir a whole pot of gumbo without breaking her rhythm.

She had this quiet wisdom and a sharp wit that snuck up on you.

I remember one day I was sitting on the porch, notebook in hand, trying to write something deep like I was some old poet already. I was maybe twelve or thirteen, full of feelings but not much structure. I must’ve been sighing and scratching my head, looking pitiful, because she came outside, sat down beside me, and said, “Boy, if you’re gonna sit there moaning like that, at least go get me a glass of sweet tea.” I said, “I’m trying to write something powerful, Grandma.” She just laughed, patted my knee, and said, “Then stop thinking so hard and just tell the truth. People can smell fake words before you even write ’em.” She was right, too. She always was.

So yeah, folks don’t always understand this path. They look at me and chuckle.

“A writer?” they ask, like it’s a hobby or a phase.

Some think I’m wasting time, that the world’s passing me by while I’m scribbling thoughts.

But what they don’t see is this: I’m not scribbling. I’m sowing.

And these words? They’re seeds.

They might not bloom today.

But they will. One day. Somewhere. In someone.

I may not have a big name. I don’t have millions in the bank. I don’t own a mansion on a hill. But I’ve got this pen. And I’ve got a connection to something far greater than me. That’s enough. Actually, it’s more than enough.

I remember being up in the mountains one day, and something just… shifted. It’s hard to explain. The wind moved different. The silence was louder. And I felt it that quiet, undeniable nudge from the Creator. Not in a dramatic way, but in a way that humbled me to my knees. That’s when I knew: I’m not writing for attention. I’m writing because I’ve been trusted with something.

My mother, Marva God rest her soul used to look at me and say, “Son, your words will carry you farther than your legs ever could. But speak from a place of listening, not pride.” That stayed with me. She was never one for flashy talk, but when she spoke, it mattered. She believed in me when I didn’t even know what I had inside. She saw this gift long before I did. And now, every time I sit down to write, it’s like I can feel her standing right behind me, hand on my shoulder, reminding me to stay grounded.

I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I’ve been through storms that nearly broke me. I’ve battled with doubt, wrestled with loneliness, and wondered more than once if my voice mattered at all. But somehow, grace always finds me again. And when it does, it brings words with it.

People tell me my writing touches them. That it feels honest, or healing, or familiar. If that’s true, it’s only because I write from a place of realness. I don’t have all the answers. I’m still growing, still learning, still stumbling sometimes. But I show up with open hands, with a willing heart, and with whatever words I’ve been given for the day.

So no, I don’t have riches to show. But I’ve got a soul that listens. A heart that cares. And a pen that keeps showing up, no matter what. That, to me, is wealth.

I love ❤️ 😍 writing ✍️

And if these words reach you if they help you feel seen or understood then please know it’s not because of me. I’m just the vessel. The ink belongs to something bigger.

This is my offering.

This is my journey.

And I’m honored to share it with you.