Writing for Me

For weeks I have been seeing signs (almost daily) telling me that I should do what I am afraid to do, that I should speak the stories that are getting caught in my throat, and write the ones that are making my hands shake as I clutch the pen or stroke the keys.

I had been ignoring these messages, but then I began to wake up with words on the tip of my tongue, and my heart felt as though it was near bursting for all the things I was not saying.

It seemed there were some secrets, some old hurts, some healing, some earned wisdom that were determined to make their way into the world, one way or another whether I allowed them passage or not. I realized then that we are not in always control of what we share, but we can have a hand in how. I am working on the how. As the words come to me I write them down. I don't worry about editing them, I just let them flow.

I go back, read them, feel my heart flutter with that familiar fear that says "you should not be writing this," and then I put them away before I am overcome by the urge to alter them, censor them, soften their edges. 

I hope to release these stories out into the world one day, but for now, the reader I am writing for is me. And not just present me, but also for adolescent me, young adult me. Though, I worry about how she would receive what I'm writing. What would she think of the way I see the life we lived? How would she feel about these lessons I wish I could share with her? Would she be proud of what we have become?

 

 

Liberated Lines - Day One

Love is patient, Love is kind...