I’ve wanted to write so much lately but I just… can’t. I’m literally incapable of writing anything with substance anymore and it is killing me. Sure, I’ll answer the occasional Formspring question every few days or so and sure, that’s considered writing but it just isn’t the same. Words are my passion. I absolutely love the English language. Everything makes so much more sense to me written down on a piece of paper. Other than making beautiful children, which is actually just genetics when it comes down to it; I’ve never really been good at anything. I can’t sing, dance, paint, draw, play sports. I honestly can’t do anything that requires any more coordination than one needs to walk. I didn’t get straight A’s in school to make up for it, either. Growing up, it drove me insane. All I wanted was to be good at SOMETHING. I was constantly wishing that I could just hit that stupid fucking ball in gym or that I could make something in art class that didn’t look like it was made by someone that failed Kindergarten… twice.
Then my brother died and I was this 11-year-old little girl with more feelings than I knew what to do with. That’s when I started writing. Maybe they were sad, awkward, I’d-probably-be-embarrassed-of-them-now poems but I thought I was kindof good so I kept writing. It wasn’t until my mom’s funeral that I knew I was good.
A few days after she died, I wrote a paper about her. I showed it to my dad and he showed it to the minister that we met with and told him that it described my mom perfectly. He asked if I wanted to read it at her funeral and I said no. Then he asked if he could and I agreed.
That minister was used to speaking at funerals. He did it all the time. But when he was up there reading my paper, he was so choked up that he couldn’t finish two sentences without having to pause. He was so choked up that he kept saying the wrong words and I would have to correct him. After that, I remember looking around the room and almost everyone was crying. Even the people that just barely knew her or came in support of someone else and didn’t know her at all. That is when I knew that I was good. The second that I saw that many faces stained with tears and realized that MY writing did that, I knew that I had more than just words. I had control over their emotions with every sentence I put together. Even in the saddest of situations, writing without passion and at least some talent won’t have those results. They might leave with a heavy heart but you won’t leave an impression on it.
When the funeral was over and everyone came up to hug my family and I, instead of getting the usual “I’m so sorry about your mom” or “it’s going to be okay” cliche lines, almost everyone told me how amazing my writing was instead and how they couldn’t believe that it came from a 14-year-old. Even at the dinner we had afterward, people continued to tell me how great it was. That is when I finally realized that I had a talent all along and it felt better to me than shooting a basketball ever would, even if I did make it.
I think the thing I love the most about it is that it doesn’t talk back. It just listens. Whatever you write is between you and the paper. If you tell a pointless story, it won’t look at you like you’re stupid at the end or tell you that it doesn’t care. You can write down your feelings or problems and know with full confidence that it isn’t going to half-ass listen or suggest that you “get over it and move on”. It won’t assume that you’re crazy and offer you it’s sister’s best friend’s mom’s therapist’s number. There’s no lecture about life or unwanted advice after you’re finished. It won’t interrupt you mid-sentence to talk about itself. The words aren’t going to jump off the paper and start spreading rumors about you or talking behind your back. It doesn’t come with all of the bullshit that people do. It’s just there for you, unconditionally, waiting to see what you have to say. And the best part? If you mess up, you can always start over fresh. You always get a redo.
What else could you really ask for?
