That’s a loaded title. Where are the words? When will they show up? How long will it take?
These thoughts are loaded with questions, baggage, and ghosts for all of us who have this strange urge to document our lives with letters and words and sentences. We do it to make sense of what has happened to us, what will happen to us, what we hope happens to us. We use it to figure out motivations, loved ones, puzzles, scary things, and mysteries. We use these words to figure out how we truly feel underneath all the layers, the fake smiles, the daily grind.
It’s not always lofty business. We also use it to have fun, and escape, and create things that weren’t there before.
Writing brings all the blurry edges and unfocused lenses into startling clarity. All the fine lines we once couldn’t see, the vividness of colors that once seemed dull, they all come into focus. Every now and then it stings to look at the microscope-lens-worthy truth so closely.
So with all that to consider, is it any wonder why sometimes we just… can’t? To write things is to feel them sharply, painfully, joyfully, tearfully, ecstatically. It’s exhilarating and exhausting all at the same time. To write things is to no longer be able to ignore issues and feelings that we’ve successfully shoved to the back of the closets in our minds. Issues get drug center stage, right underneath a white hot spotlight.
This has been a year of truth-telling and truth-finding and huge emotional highs and lows. I find myself tearfully grateful, intensely happy, and overwhelmingly optimistic about the future. It’s been a long time since hope bubbled up in my throat and came out in a million smiles. But it does now. Being in love will do that to a woman. Being in love with a good man who keeps his promises and loves my daughter like his own? My smiles border on megawatt most days.
But when I sit down at my computer, the words don’t always flow. I think the record needle in my head is worn out at the moment. The last several years have taken so much energy to survive and think and cry, there wasn’t always a lot left for the writing machinery in my head. The needle grew dull and not completely suited to play the music that makes the words or finds the sentences that turn into the right paragraphs. But I keep returning. I keep putting my fingers over the keys, hovering, waiting for the words to come back. Now, there’s hope.
Because if I’ve learned anything in this life, and if there’s one thing that comforts me with the intensity of a cheerfully lit window in the dark of night, it’s that the words always come back. They spring back up and start pouring out in a rush. Just like life, and love. It always comes back. And it’s my job, your job, to be sitting at the desk when they do.