There has always been a part of me that has considered myself a writer. Back from the days of grade school where we made yearbook declarations about our far distant futures, mine varied as far along the possible job spectrum as "journalist" all the way to "children's author"...and never much further.
In high school I attended writing conferences. My English teacher had me read drafts of his novel for my feedback. I started working on two different novels (which I never finished) and attempted NaNoWriMo twice (and failed both times).
When looking for colleges to apply to, I had a few requirements (co-ed, small, close enough so I wouldn't need to fly home). The only educational requirements I had were that they offered Chinese, Psychology & Writing. I kept a blog in college that usual dissolved to posting personality quiz results or drunk poetry. I took one literary analysis class and it went so slowly and simplistically I got fed up and dropped my English major plans. I took one poetry writing class that often got cancelled and that left me usually feeling so uninspired I just submitted poems I had already written.
I don't know what happened to writer-me. But even still there is a part of me that thinks maybe one day I'll be a published author. I had a dream a few years back that inspired a storyline in me for a novel. I wrote a few thousand words and haven't touched it since. I write in this blog for a month once a year and never any other time, apparently, and with not much care even when I do. I write long and detailed emails to far off friends as a way to keep in touch...though rarely. Do these pitiful bits add up to being a writer?
I still say I can express myself better in writing, but sometimes even that fails me.
When you are filled with loss or grief that is so terrible and unique and bone deep, there are no words that can even touch upon it, and sometimes even trying feels like a mockery. When that pain is in someone else, no words will be able to reach and soothe it.
There isn't some magic phrase out there that is able to perfectly sum up: "I have no idea how you are feeling and I wish I did so I could help but I don't know if you want comfort or to be left alone or if I should use humor to distract you or share our pain together and please let me help I want to help I need to feel useful but oh my god that is so selfish of me to be thinking about that when I am just worried about you are you ok I know there are other people out there that are closer to you so I don't want to overstep my bounds but I'm here I'm here I'm here if you need me too"
I get so caught up sometimes thinking that the right words are out there for every situation. That if I phrase something just right, I will finally finally be able to get someone else to see things from my point of view. That no matter how bad the situation is I will be able to use the right words to sort it out or inspire someone or cheer up a friend or help to make the hurt go away in someone I care about.
Sometimes, though, words are useless. But I think the important thing to remember is that saying them isn't.
