To Tell a Story
From my earliest memories, as soon as I could read, books were my escape, dear friends who would whisk me off to places and times where I felt more me. I spent long hours in dimly lit corners, because I craved being alone when I the books I read, read me back. The intimacy of finding my deepest truths in someone else's words, like prying open a love letter, the authoress giving voice to my secret inner life—I needed solitude to find myself on the page, savoring personal discoveries. I still do today.
There is a sweet, salivating pang when the words of an authoress speaks so clearly of an experience or memory that I feel, but haven't found words or courage for yet. And now, as I near my 50th trip around the sun, I yearn for something different—to be the sayer of these truths, to write the stories that become a voice for a young girl who doesn't yet have her own words, but who one day will roar with a ferocity she doesn't yet know she has.
But the last time I wrote a work of fiction was when I was ten, and it wasn't very read worthy. I wonder if I have it in me to tell a story, to say the things I'm too afraid to say? I wonder. I listen. I wait for the answers to come.