Dear Sweet Girl Who Deserves Love and Wonderful Things in Your Life, all the time:
I hope this letter will explain how I feel about writing; and a lot of other important stuff.(Sorry, there’s some swearing; but the grown-up you cusses.)
What corrupted our inner fire? Why do we pray for invisibility? Why do we hate ourselves? Why do we fear what others think of us? At what age do we stop believing in magic?
How can we begin to believe in ourselves? How hard will we work to reclaim our power? How will we share our bounty with the world? When will we begin? When will we say, aloud, that we are worth everything?
Beware of anyone who refuses to tell you the rules:
There is a lapse in my judgment and I get excited about my 8th grade English class – a unit in creative writing. But the teacher never told me that she didn’t want me to use hyperbole, or idioms, or colloquialism. She only said I was doing it wrong and gave me a big fat gigantic insanely humongous “F”. As in, FUCK YOU.
What do you know about these things in 8th grade when your hormones are a disaster and being in your body is actually worse than being in your mind?
This is what I did(do) to cope:
I tell everyone before they find out on their own. I’m really a bad writer.
Writing is just not my thing. I say it like a teenager that pretends she doesn’t care. But I care, painfully.
And then it’s assumed. I have put it out there for everyone to know and see.
And eventually, they say: You are right. Not your skill-set. You’re not a good writer. It doesn’t flow naturally.
And I continue to do this to myself for the next 35 years. THIRTY-FIVE.
Am I unable to give writing another try simply because I’ve never honestly tried to do it well? Am I unable to take a chance and have no fear about what others will say and think? Am I too scared? Who can it hurt?
One day I woke up and I was a middle-aged woman.
And I don’t tell anyone, because I’m scared to say it out loud –
But I guess I decided, I’m going to write; and I am rewriting my own rules.
I guess I’ve finished letting past hurts dictate who I am.
I guess I’ve decided to figure out who I’ll be when I grow up.
I’m not sure I can write fiction. I’m still trying to get a grip on reality.
But I have discovered I really love writing about ordinary things that are important to me.
I love pondering the questions that circle my brain every day.
This is how it goes:
I pour my soul out onto paper; and mostly end up with bullshit.
And sometimes I end up with something that makes my heart feel full and good.
Each time I make something, the first level is all surface chatter, painful things, and half-truths.
If I can keep my focus, if I can keep myself on track; sometimes I can peel away the layers and extract love. Then I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Even now, sometimes the small, mean voice tells me I cannot write.
But I can. I do. I know you might not like it. But I like it, just fine.
And, I love you.
From the girl you might be in 2016.
and P.S. I know I’m not supposed to begin sentences with AND and BUT; but I did it anyway.