On Writing

I once had a conversation with my brother discussing the topic of writing. He asked me how I was doing with writing my book. I thought about lying to him and saying it was going great, when in reality I had hit a wall with the “W” word. Side note: I will be switching back and forth between actually using the word “Writing“ and referring to it as the “W” word. Otherwise, this would inevitably become a drinking game for every time I say “writing.” Anyway, this is my way of explaining to him why I love the “W” word and my process, despite having been a little stuck at the time.

I can only imagine what one must be thinking while reading this. “Why would anyone want to write something about writing? Unless it’s in some boring ass textbook that everyone only pretends to read. This New-Age “Meta” bullshit has gone way too far!” At least, that’s what my opinion would be when starting to read this.

I’m a lazy person by nature. I don’t like hard work, especially if it’s boring and not instantly gratifying. I simply refuse to do it. However, the “W” word is the only exception. It’s not easy, but I absolutely love it.

My mind is mostly like a broken television when I go to write. Staticky and blank. I can barely manage to string together a few morsels of coherent sentences. I feel as though I am severely underwhelming at this stage. Like all of those little, yet loud, voices in my head telling me that I have no real value were correct. Then, suddenly something purely magical happens. A wave of words crashes onto the page- unstoppable.

I feel like a songwriter who just had an idea for a hit chorus pop into their head out of nowhere. That chorus leads to a domino effect that ends in a Grammy Award winning album. It’s not there and it feels like it’s never going to be there, but then the idea hits you like a piano falling on top of your head.

I don’t feel powerful a lot of the time, because I depend on people to help me with all of my daily living activities. My severe speech impediment has made me feel unheard ever since I can remember. Those and a thousand other things add up to me feeling like I’m only a decoration instead of a multi-faceted human being.

It’s different when I’m writing. I’m empowered to say whatever I want without interruption. I don’t have to abbreviate myself, so I don’t take up too much of the conversation time. I don’t feel like I’m a half a step behind everything, because I go at my own pace. Writing makes my darkest thoughts a lot more manageable, because getting them down removes so much of their power over me. It’s part of how I honor those who I love. Writing helps me prove that I am in here, despite what people may see on the outside. I could go on…

Writing saved my life. One day in the middle of the pandemic, I had a particularly hard time. I don’t remember the specific events, but I somehow felt numb and in a striking amount of pain simultaneously. The numbness scared me more. I knew that I could survive being in pain, but I couldn’t survive being an empty shell of myself.

I thought about reaching out to someone to talk to. I knew that I wasn’t alone. However, it was in the middle of quarantine and everyone was dealing with their own issues. I didn’t want to start a panic and I definitely didn’t want anyone tiptoeing around me. I probably underestimated the people that I love and I am sorry for that. The fear was real that they would look at me differently. In fact, I will probably always have some reservations about sharing such a vulnerable thing.

I have had this voice in my head ever since I can remember. “I have nothing to be afraid of. I can face this. I’m going to suck it up and deal with it, because I’m strong.” These statements would carry me through the most turbulent times of my life. That inner encouraging sound was drowned out by an uneasy silence that day.

I quickly realized that I had to retrieve those comforting murmurs back from wherever they had disappeared to. It was almost as if their absence had a haunting presence. They added a splash of fiery and vibrant color to my mind, and without them it was scary and gray. I chose to go to work to find them again.

After a good amount of time coming up with zero ideas, one finally hit me. I decided to write a list of all the reasons why I wanted to live. As cliche as that sounds, no other brilliant options had struck me at that point. I would love to say that the list flowed directly from my brain onto the page, abundant and endless, and I suddenly snapped out of my depressed fog. But that is not the truth.

The truth has a much less fairy tale feel to it. I barely wrote down a couple of items before I got distracted and forgot about it completely. However, it was the start of something. That little scrap of half-baked ideas sparked a tiny flicker in me that I didn’t even notice was there. Even my crappiest piece of writing still brought out enough life in me to keep going.

I wouldn’t have the life I love so much today without that grammatically incorrect, unfinished note that I deleted off of my phone.