I started writing in 3rd grade, in a pink Barbie diary that had a tiny brass key, which I promptly lost, so I had to pry it open with pliers. No longer able to lock up my words, I was faced with the writer’s dilemma – would I write real and raw or clean it up for the consumption of others?
I tucked the diary underneath my socks and underwear and bravely wrote about my secret infatuation with Kirk Smith, the boy across the street with the silver tooth. I lamented about being left out of tether ball at recess and not winning a ribbon for the shoe kick at field day even though my shoe went the furthest, disqualified for stepping over the imaginary starting line. I wrote terrible poems about tortuous teachers and I doodled quite a bit. Mostly rainbows and flowers.
I worked through adolescent angst in spiral notebooks that I buried in the back of my closet. I wrote about the icy silence between my parents, their eventual divorce, the heartbreak of fractured friendships and all the awkwardness that is middle school. I might also have doodled some hearts with Kirk Smith’s name in the middle.
For many years after, I believed my thoughts and words were best kept stored away in my head, but eventually they made me toxic so I asked them to evacuate the premises and I started blogging. I’ve blogged on and off for the past 5 years in this sort of pattern: I love blogging! I love writing! I am such a narcissist! Why am I doing this? This is terrible! I have nothing to say! I have something to say! The world needs to hear what I have to say! I am a prideful! I should be more humble! I will quit! I will start! I will quit! I will start again!
I exhaust myself.
Welcome to my war. The war of words, the war of art, the art that demands to be born no matter how deep we bury it. Unlocking our vulnerability is the key to the universe. I show you mine, you show me yours, and we are both less lonely.
What is it that you need to unlock? Let it out friend, the world is waiting.
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