The Writer Within

I love writers. They are, hands down, in my top three of the types of people I would surround myself with on a daily basis, if the opportunities presented themselves. I would rather communicate with the written word than with a verbal conversation at least 90% of the time. I feel like I’m so much more eloquent when writing, and can rarely present my thoughts and ideas effectively when having to speak them aloud. Perhaps that’s a throwback to spending more time with books than people during my childhood. Maybe I was never sufficiently socialized as a child. Or maybe I just don’t like the drama and affectations of people in the flesh. It’s a mystery, for sure.

Back to writers, though. I have friends whose pieces I’ve had the pleasure of reading this week. It amazes (and frustrates) me that their words seem to effortlessly take shape on the page, that they’ve managed to capture so effectively the thoughts that are streaming through my mind at a million miles per minute. Their words just seem to tumble out, forming the perfect bridge between my psyche and reality, and they leave me wondering how it is possible that they can so accurately harness what I’m feeling, without the benefit of a conversation, without “knowing” what I think I’m going through.

I’m jealous, angry even, that they have “stolen” my stories, and have put them to paper before I can even formulate the story myself. It makes me feel like nothing I write after them will be good enough, or will even feel original. To undertake the piece now, I would just be reiterating something someone else has already written, that they’ve written in such a way that no matter how I create my piece, it will seem to fall flat.

Even this is a struggle.

And it occurs to me that I’m being extremely self-centered.

They aren’t writing for me, or about me.

I am not the only person who has ever felt the things I’ve felt. Many of my experiences, while unique to me and my life, are not unique to the world around me. There are people here, in this space, who have experienced the hurts, the joys, the love, and the loneliness that I have experienced. Not in exactly the same way, and not by the same path that I’ve travelled, but the feelings are the same. And I’m filled with an overwhelming feeling of love and admiration for the writers that I know. They have been able to muddle through their thoughts, walls, and emotions and share a piece of themselves in a medium that has the space available for anyone who wishes to do the same.

There is relief in this thought.

I love writers. I love my friends who are writers, who, through their own courageous forays into pen and paper, continuously give me the drive to work through the onion of my own mind and soul, peeling back the layers a bit at a time. In time, I will be able to share myself the way others do, but there is no timeline.

I don’t have to rush to beat someone else to the story. I don’t have to feel like my time has slipped by for being relevant. I don’t have to create the writer within. She’s already there, and she’ll come out when she’s ready.


When Words Die




through my grey matter


not yet complete

mere words

trying to join together to form something more

they beg to be written


released to the ether

perhaps to touch some other life

to bring meaning


push away the darkness for a moment or two


they fight to control a thing that cannot be controlled

they keep me awake

wreak havoc in the night

the day

the in-between

I need only write them

free them

give them what they crave

I’m stone-walled

every turn a dead end

an excuse

a fear

that they just won’t be good enough

they just won’t be seen

be heard

be accepted

I just won’t be good enough




they suffocate

an agonizing death

from which I cannot escape.