Words and Me

A few weeks ago, a friend looked me in the eye and asked, “When are you going to write a book?”

It was such a genuinely nonchalant question, but I wasn’t sure what to say, actually, because I’d just gotten finished arguing with God about the whole writing thing just a few days before. I tried to answer with a lot of excuses as to why I wasn’t going to write a book—or anything for that matter, but the conversation has bothered me since.

You see, words and me, we go way back.

I got my first journal when I was about seven years old. It was pink and shiny with a little locking clasp, and I was so proud to own something that I could lock and hide the key for—something that was strictly mine that no one else would have access to. That bright clean first page spread before me, and I wrote about going sledding with my friends. I can still remember that absolutely childish delight of putting into words the fun I’d had, to store that memory in ink forever.

To say that I have been writing ever since would be a mild understatement. I was that girl who wrote stories for friends and family as gifts; that girl who genuinely loved the process of writing essays and research papers in school (don’t hate me); and that girl who has filled with words dozens of journals, notebooks, planners, and loose pieces of paper—not to mention who knows how many computer documents—over the last two and a half decades.

I am a terrible verbal communicator. I overthink everything I say, my throat goes dry, and—if you know me well, you know that I have a hard time communicating anything of importance (which really could just be the weekend’s plans or booking a hotel for vacation) without either panicking or crying. (I am sorry.)

But writing? It’s breathing. I feel the same way when I touch the piano keys or when I step foot on an ice rink. When I write, I feel free. Give me a blank page and a pen (or a keyboard) and the words come spilling out. I can write 1,000 words in 20 minutes without even blinking an eye.

Despite the fact that writing has always been an integral part of my life, I swore it off several years ago, both publicly and privately. Publicly, because I did not want to add more noise to an already noisy culture. I did not want to write things and sound like I had it all together because I mostly definitely do not. I also needed to navigate the pathways of learning how to be a wife and mother without exposing that to the world. And, to be fully honest, I had grown weary of the comments by family and friends (though well-meaning, I am sure) about the raw thoughts I was leaving on the page. I did not want to come across as if I were looking for attention. I was afraid of saying something that could get thrown back in my face. I was afraid of being hypocritical. Also, I was disenchanted with the publishing industry and felt that my chance at being a writer was basically non-existent since I had neither a strong social media following nor any desire to promote my work in visible settings. In reality, I have needed time to learn; time to question every single thing I believed; time to mature (an ongoing process, y’all).

In a shocking move, though, I also gave up writing privately. For years, I did not write anything in a journal or on my laptop. I had become overwhelmed by my own voice; I was tired of the thoughts I kept revisiting and had no healthy ways to manage them. I hated the fact that when I sat down to write, I cried. I hated the words—and the tears—spilling on to the page. I hated me. I hated life. At times, I hated God. I tore apart and shredded a number of journals because I never ever wanted to see those words again. I believed that by silencing the words, I could avoid the emotions and the turmoil that swirled within. I would be safer if I didn’t write.

That isn’t to say that I didn’t write anything at all. In fact, during this ‘silent’ period, I have grown a business that is (are you ready for this?) all about words. I have written hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of words of curriculum (that is not an exaggeration), teaching other people how to write and encouraging other people about the importance of words. Funny, yes? I was writing, and it felt safe (a little boring maybe, but safe), and I liked it that way. At least, I told myself I liked it.

But there was this nagging in my spirit, a nagging to press in deeper, a nagging for something more. And I had been asking God about it for years. What was it that I was supposed to do? What about all of these swirling thoughts in my head? Despite the fact that I had tried to silence them, they kept growing louder and louder. I became tired of my efforts to stay safe. And I thought, maybe, just maybe, writing would help me break out of the prison in which I found myself.

So last spring, after reading Joanna Gaines’ The Stories We Tell, I bought myself a journal. It is pink. And shiny. Though this time, there is no locking clasp and no key. Instead of being proud of this journal, I feel wildly unsafe with it. This time, instead of staring at the first blank page with glee, I looked at it with horror. I was supposed to put something on that page? When had writing begun to feel so suffocating? When had I become so terrified by my own thoughts?

I have spent much of the year exploring my thoughts and ideas in writing. The process has been painful. I have avoided it far more often than not. But, I have been surprised—shocked really—to find that the words are still very much there.

But, I would keep those words for myself, I said. I have nothing to say that anyone else wants or needs to read. I can’t walk down that road again, being transparent and honest in a public setting. Besides, blogs aren’t trendy anymore—everyone is doing videos and reels and Instagram stories, and that will never be me.

The words come just as easily to me as they did when I was seven years old, but now I mix them with doubt and self-criticism, with questions, with fear, with concern. I mix them with heartache and disappointment and reality. And so it seems, maybe it is better not to write. Maybe it is better just to stick with safe, just to write about thesis statements and MLA format. But that thing in my spirit? It persists. And I don’t know why. I do know that I am tired of ignoring it. I am tired of discounting this part of my life. I am tired of saying, “I’m not a writer,” merely because I don’t have a publishing contract or a book on a store shelf. I am tired of believing that I have to do the trendy things or do the things that other people like or want me to do. I am tired of believing that my voice doesn’t matter. I am tired of making decisions based on what other people might think. I am tired of letting fear rule my entire life.

Yes, you might think, “Oh, here she goes again . . . writing on her blog. Let’s see how long this lasts?” You might judge the thoughts I share. You might question my motives, my walk with God, my personality, and my character. And even if you don’t, I will. I will do all of those things to myself.

But I will write. Because I have things to say. And it is the words of other people put on paper that have pulled me out of the pit the last few years. So if other people can write, and God can speak through those people, then why can’t I write and have Him speak through me?

Am I writing a book? Well, I’m not sure. I’ve got 10,000 words—very messy words—gathering in a document on my computer. They are not the least bit coherent, but I’m exploring. For now, I will write here as I can. I have no schedule, no timetable, absolutely no agenda. And maybe I’ll just write about sledding with my friends, who knows? But if words are your thing—and even if they are not—I’d so deeply appreciate you joining me on this journey of discovering the writer I have always been and the one I am becoming every single day.

Feature Photo by Jess Bailey Designs: https://www.pexels.com/photo/closeup-photo-of-journal-book-and-pencils-1018133/