On Writing

On Writing

I am always tucking things away in little places. Sometimes I forget all about what I’ve put where, and years later I’m surprised to find some little trinket or card from a dear friend hiding in a box or drawer. I do this on purpose; I love the idea of finding things, or of my kids someday going through my old journals and discovering little hidden treasures amidst the yellowed pages. A person could browse my overstuffed bookshelves for hours, exploring all the nooks and crannies where I’ve squirreled away various mementos. Everything has a story. Everything has value. We can choose to notice it, and we can choose to mark it – to keep the purple rock we find on the hike up to the waterfall, or the musty old copy of Shakespeare that smells just how an old book ought to smell, and to put them somewhere special, where we’ll find them again someday and be reminded of the way we felt that day, who was there and why it mattered.

Isn’t that what it really comes down to — the stories? My favorite people are the ones who ask.  They sense that there’s a reason behind all the clutter, that it’s more than just amateur level hoarding. Then, I get to share something with them, and perhaps they’ll be reminded of a story to share with me. I guess it’s like bait; I’ve set my trap and I’m waiting, hoping to ensnare a kindred spirit. The most fascinating people are the ones who engage. Those who have done some living, who have gathered their own collection of tales to tell, are the ones who notice, who ask, and who have something to offer in return.

For me, that’s where writing comes in.

There has always been something liberating to me about writing. I’m not a good speaker; the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth, and I fumble and second guess and generally make a mess of whatever I’m trying to say. Writing has always felt more natural to me. It’s safer, yet more powerful. I can keep trying until I get it just right. And when I share it, it takes on a life of its own. If I give someone a piece I’ve written and they love it, it becomes theirs too. Words spoken are soon forgotten, but writing lives on. Ideas can travel, endure, and reach places deep inside people.

If we read the same story, we are bound together by it even if we never meet face to face. If you love the same authors that I love, we are automatic friends. I know you have been where my imagination has been, loved characters I have loved, and cried at sorrows that broke my heart. That is the power of writing, and it’s why we get hooked.

Do I write because I want power over others? Yes, and no. I want to be a part of the story, but I also want to give the gift. I am sure that I am not the only one with these ideas. The same thoughts and passions swirl in another heart, and when that person reads my work it will resonate in his or her soul. That connection makes it worthwhile, even if a thousand people find it boring. The one who cherishes it is my soul mate in that moment.

That’s why we love authors, and not just the stories they write. That’s why we want autographed copies of their books, and why we look them up online. And it’s why authors reach out to their readers, craving feedback and responding to fan mail. We sense the connection, and it’s real. It’s something beautiful we can hold onto.

I could think about writing, and wish I had time to write. I could let myself get bogged down by doubt, distraction, fear and busyness.  I could envy those who do write, but where does that leave me? I just have to do it. Make the time, find the space, duct tape my kids’ mouths shut for a half hour of quiet… okay, maybe not. Most people never get past the wishing. Everyone has dreams, but how many of us are making sacrifices, fighting to turn them into reality? That’s what it feels like to me a lot of the time: an arduous fight up a jagged mountain covered in cactus and infested with a horde of leaping, screeching monkeys, with a bundle of bananas on my back. And ice, too; the mountain is also icy. But I’m not giving up, and I’m not turning back; I’ve brought my baseball bat and hiking boots, and I am going to make it to the top of this mountain. I will. And I’ll be waiting for you to join me there.

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