Words

I am pretty sure I first began writing just for me. It started with poems at a very young age about the usual stuff – the sun, the moon, animals and music. They escalated in intensity in my early teens. It seems at the same rate as my hormones. A few months ago, while getting organized to move, I came across a folder with those yellowed pieces of notebook paper. They were written so many years ago and yet as I read each poem, they felt so familiar that I could almost finish the stanza in my head before my eyes caught up with the words.

Here is a taste. Warning: may lead to smirking and cringing.

Yes, that is a pretty good representation of my teenage expression in the written word. Most of the poems were about love. To me this is ironic considering my post a few weeks ago regarding the moment when I finally learned to love. If you read my high school poems, you can tell I’m trying to figure it out, I suppose like most of us are at that age. It’s a comforting reminder that those lessons in love do begin early in life, because if we are lucky, we have a lot of time to practice and apply.

I also uncovered a multitude of folders containing essays from English Composition class with a teacher I am most grateful for, Mrs. Hollabaugh. I think she believed there was nothing more important to success than to be able to write properly. The thoughts came to me pretty naturally. She inspired my words further while also helping me appropriately package them into a solid effort that would prepare me for college.

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In the same stack of papers there were drafts and published pieces from my high school newspaper for which I was the Editor-in-Chief when I was a Sophomore. That’s when I had dreams of following a career in Journalism. I am honestly not sure how that derailed, and I ended up as a business major. I often consider what it would have been like to be a professional reporter or writer. I think I would have really enjoyed it. But then again, our paths go where they go, and if I had become a journalist, I may not have written two children’s books nor have had the energy for this blog. So, I am content that I have still found a way to write.

There are a number of reasons why, as an adult, I am compelled to do so.

The written word is my preferred form of expressing myself. As an introvert, my nature demands that I process before I speak.

Writing helps me to gain a greater understanding of my own life. This has for so many years come to fruition in my journaling. But I have been more drawn and committed to this process during my grief this past year. As I document and sift through the content of my life, writing helps me see the various threads that weave together, what appear on the surface to be, unrelated thoughts and experiences.  

I have a desire to inspire thought in others. I am not interested in writing an opinion that I expect anyone else to agree with. However, I do hope that my writing is an opportunity to help someone as they seek their own understanding of life and how they show up in it every day.

People have told me that I have a gift, and here is the truth of that from my vantage point. No one has ever pounded down my door to publish me. And no one is paying me. There are millions of writers being published. I have profound respect and admiration for the many amateur writers as well as those who are earning a living through their talents. And I know that I am not that writer.

But, here is my gift. I am doing it. I make the time for it. I have the discipline. And yes, I have the courage. I did start writing first, for me. Eventually, I wrote because I had something to say that I hoped, just maybe, would make a difference in the life of a child: The Napkin and With Butterfly Eyes.

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And now, finally, I write because I know there is no way that I could NOT write. I needed it for myself, and this had to be an avenue that again, would somehow, in some way, make a difference in the life of someone else.

Sue Monk Kidd said, the role of the writer is not to say what we all can say but to say what others are unable to say. If so, then just maybe I am a writer. And if you have made it this far with me, thank you for noticing my words.