Writing sometimes seem like insanity to me. What sane person would write secrets and post it on their neighbor’s door to read? I would. Me. Why? Some people are born to dance, some are born to play guitar, some are born to build, some are born to add, some are born to paint. I was born to write.
I wrote my first story before kindergarten; it was about animals. I wrote another about a cloud, “but not just any ordinary cloud,” and I wrote another one about mermaids. I wrote in my first journal in elementary school, it had flowers printed on the front and a silver lock but ended up being buried by my brother: He actually made the effort to climb up my “start tree,” retrieve it from the plastic bag tied to the highest branch I could reach, read it, and then rid of the evidence in a black heap in the backyard. When my new one was full, I started another. And in junior high, another. And two more in high school. And I just recently began a new one in December. I have one filled from Africa. I have one journal with nothing but random thoughts, and quotes and lists, and poems. I have one to God. I have one with songs. I have one with nothing but letters to a person I don’t even know, yet.
I’m a writer. It has occurred to me that it doesn’t even matter if I’m a good writer, just like it doesn’t matter whether someone who loves to talk is an eloquent talker, or has a lisp, or has a tied tongue…they’re still going to talk. Some people need to speak, and if they don’t, you can see the excess of words building up behind their closed lips, and it’s only a matter of time before the words start tumbling out. It’s inevitable.
Several months ago, I started writing anonymous confessions in the backs of library books. I even left little hints to lead the reader to the next anonymous message. I’ve written random things on the doors of bathroom stalls; I’ve written, carved, and painted “Martha Lee Anne” on walls, tables, chairs, driveways, trees, and desks; I sometimes write random notes and purposefully leave them for someone else to find; I’ve written, “blah blah,” and “I’m bored” in the corners or textbooks; I’ve written “ wash me” on the backs of cars; I even carved “Martha Lee Anne,” on the underside of the 100 year old piano in my living room ; I’ve filled ten journals, soon to be eleven in 23 years because I believe, one day, someone will read them. And if they read them, then they read me. If they read me, they know me. If they know me, I existed. And if what I wrote mattered to them, maybe I matter to them. I’m throwing my heart out in as many glass bottles as I can, because one day, those bottles will wash ashore, and one day, someone will open them.
It sounds vain, but it isn’t meant to be. And it sounds like I want to live forever, but I don’t. I want to know people. I want to know their thoughts, and heart, and ideas. I want to know you…We have so little time, so little conversations, and we fill it up with the weather, and sports, and “What’s your major.” But I can look outside and see the weather for myself, I watched the game, and I already know your major because either a) I saw it on facebook or b) we have already had this conversation. I have friends I don’t even know, and I have friends who don’t know me, because we’re so busy hiding our stories behind locked up journals, and tying them up as high and away from others as we can. But if we hide our stories, who are we?
When I write, it’s like the words become something tangible, something real, something that, hopefully, will grab hold of people and pull them closer to me. And in that time, maybe we’ll know each other, maybe we’ll be real friends, and maybe we’ll find that amidst all of the things that keep us isolated and alone, we’re the same.
We have both cried. We have both tried to figure God out. We have both loved. We have both been undeserving and thankful. We have both been awkward and insecure. We have both failed and fumbled, but still found small victories. We have both seen death and life. We both know how to smile, and frown, and furrow eyebrows. We both know life can be ugly, but is unimaginably beautiful too.
I write, not just for myself, but for you too. Because at some point, maybe you’ll hear me. Maybe you’ll believe me. Maybe, you’ll remember, and you won’t forget. Maybe your heart, like mine, will find itself unfolding, and you’ll want someone to be there when it does. You’ll want to know the person standing next to you in a line, or the person with their head laid down in the library, or the person sitting next to you in class, and maybe, like me, you’ll write a tiny confession in the margin of a book, or carve your name on a table, so that when they read it, they’ll know you too.
Maybe you’ll start throwing out your own glass bottles.
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