I was eleven years old when I first began writing.
I had stolen from my sister a birthday gift that a friend had given her. It was a blue and white diary - you know the kind that comes with the little, silver key? At first, my diary entries were pure pithy - "Hello, Diary," I'd begin. "What do I write to you?" I'd wonder.
I've always thought of my sister has a highly exceptional person. As an example, when she discovered my thievery, she bequeathed me the book. So, it made sense that I wanted to copy her every move - including putting the pencil to the paper in order to expose my little girl thoughts. Of course I had no clue then that I was intuitively writing to save my life.
I wrote because it was an outlet - a way for me to release all of the hurt and the sorrow that I found so difficult to verbally convey in my everyday life. I wrote of the random beatings from my dad and of the day when I swore him and his last name off. My written words told the tale of a young person confused by the contradiction of knowing deep love in her heart while experiencing violent conflict in her home.
I wrote about my neighborhood friends, as well as about national politics. And, of course, I wrote about boys. By the end of sixth grade, that little book was full and on its back page was found the names of all those whom I had chosen to love. I even created some bizarre key system that denoted who I "went out with," who I "kissed on the cheek," and who I allowed to stick his tongue in my mouth. Oh, little girls!
Today, I have dozens of books filled with my writing. Most of it is pure crap but, every once in awhile - if I'm lucky - a little gem will reveal itself. Obviously, I still write and my intention remains the same. I write to save my life. When I began this blog, I did so in hopes of holding myself accountable to my writing. At that time, I was living through an apex of my own self-imposed suffering. No matter how much my graduate school professor implored that I write, I couldn't seem to pull myself out of the deep hole of apathy that I was residing in.
Creating this online space was a way to both release my feelings, thus taking some of the power out of them, as well as practice my craft. Since then, I've come to know that others can and do read this blog, which has been a mixed blessing. I'm delighted to know that my writing just might help to save your life, too. This feels like service, and I appreciate knowing how I can and do positively impact the lives of others. Yet, lately, it seems that I am checking the stats of who is reading what and from where way too often. And, to be quite frank, "Frankly, I don't give a damn."
I don't give a damn if these words are read or not. I don't give a damn if you like what I write or not. Today, I still do this to save my own life - because if I didn't get it all out then I'd surely explode from way too much holding on. Plus, my writing has always offered me the space and time for reflection. It is also a way to craft meaning. Sometimes, life can feel so ridiculously meaningless - like, what's the point when innocent people are murdered and a greedy self-absorption seems to be the revered way? So, I write to LIVE - it's yet another radical act of claiming my rightful place in this here and now.
