How odd and unexpected a gift it was to find that writing for someone else taught me what I was lacking in writing for myself. To hold someone’s original raw thought or emotion and carefully orchestrate a communication that would not misrepresent the intention. To sift and sort words and phrases to respect the teller of the story, to hold true to the voice while removing verbiage that would block those who might receive the message otherwise. To be able to write in such a way that the person you write for says, “YES! Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to say”.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t doing this for myself.

I pulled out the 53 pages of a book I started 20 years ago, after I’d shoved it in a drawer. I’d revised it again 3 years ago, and shoved it back in the drawer. I read it tonight and a small part of me wondered how it would end if I finished it now. I wondered if I should even try because I am not at all the same woman who wrote these 53 pages, I’ve learned too much in the interim.

A friend of mine said to me today that she wished she could pick me up and lift me away from everything that stopped me from writing like that for myself. That my words make her feel like she’s there in the middle of everything that’s happening. What a wonderful thing to say, and hear.

I know I’m the only one who can do that. I’ve been what’s stopping me.

I’ve got a story to tell…