Why I Write
So my friend says, “Why?”
Why do you feel the need to share every emotion?
I had never thought of it that way. I don’t feel the need to share emotions.
I feel the need to tell stories.
To tell the truth. Because for too long, I hid. And writers helped me to become brave. In the telling.
Ann Voskamp and Anne Lamotte and Elizabeth Gilbert and on and on and on and these women wrote and they shared and they told the hard truths and from their experiences I learned.
And I laugh, because as transparent as you think I am, there’s a heck-of-a-lot that you don’t know. Believe it or not. I do filter.
Occasionally, I lose the filter. Sharing over tea or lunch or late night talks—
Which I could never.
A few weeks ago I met a friend for lunch.
I tell my stories. The ones I can’t write about , and she responds.
Forget the book! You should write a screen-play.”
And we laughed and we laughed and I got in the car and cried and cried.
It’s not really all that funny. 🙂
And then the weekend came and I was headed to an event and I felt sorry for myself because there was no-one to zip my dress.
Ok, so I guess I do share emotions. Whatever. I cried over my zipper. And once I started.
It’s the little things. And sometimes you just want help with the damn zipper. And I read something about how the Bible starts and ends with a marriage. And I read something about how we were created to live in community and created for relationship and God saw that Adam was alone and he created Eve.
And I don’t want to get married.
But I want someone to help with my zipper.
So I drive to my neighbor’s. She zips. She hugs. I cry some more.
And on Monday, I’m telling this story to a client. I talk entirely too much, and I know this, but when they’re struggling through workouts, I distract them. Sometimes with stories of zippers; sometimes with stories about kiddos and sometimes I pretend I’m the announcer at a race and we’re racing toward the finish line and people are cheering and screaming your name and today—-
My client told me to Shut Up.
But I know she loves me.
I really should remember to tell her the story about how I once attended an air-force academy formal and how I waited in line for the restroom forever only to discover that I couldn’t get my dress up.
I stood there for a few minutes. Took a deep breath. Opened the door and asked the stranger next in line to join me in the bathroom stall.
And she did. But I’m off topic.
So my 68-year-old client (the one getting the zipper story, not the one getting the cheering and clapping) is listening and we’re talking about hard things and children and sickness and sadness and she says to me “I wish I had had the presence of mind to just stop and look around” (when her kids were young).
Stop. And have the presence of mind to look around.
I forget to stop. I parent. I work. I play. I run. I try. But seldom do I remember.
And dang-it! In the forgetting, I let a zipper steal my joy.
And there is joy. If we take it.
If we claim it.
If we choose it.
If we make it.
If we stop.
And look around.
So why do I write?
I don’t know. Because I can. Because I have to. Because of Elizabeth and the two Ann’s. And because I hope someone reading will stop. And look around. That someone reading will get a little joy from my dang zipper (that, btw, a neighbor also had to help me get out of). That someone reading will get a little hope knowing there is life after a failed marriage.
That maybe God hates divorce.
But he doesn’t hate me.
That someone reading will start to feel brave. Brave enough to tell their own truth.
And did you read my last post? About dreams and hugging strangers? Yes, well, let’s face it. I write because some of my readers are REALLY, really good at giving hugs.
And just when I need them.