Where the Words Came From, and Where the Words Are Going

Paper, pen, and stacks of Reader’s Digest magazines.

What could an 11-year-old possibly find remotely interesting about these?

Everything!

My Mom had a subscription.

I would thumb through countless pages, eager to find another proverb, quote, poem, story, or anecdote tucked away, never noticing the hours flying by.

An unused, unreturned Department of Education exercise book served a higher purpose. In it, I’d write down curious, profound musings of others while unknowingly developing my own. Connection to creative souls on vast earth. Not an idle pastime but a slow-motion never-ending thrill-seeking ride. For me, the written word was and is hypnotic.

We had pale green lineless creative writing books in primary school where I made expert use of every space with poems and stories. A tale of Bugs Bunny as the protagonist that my favorite teacher ticked in red pen and wrote, “This is so funny!”

Early validation.

First author’s dopamine rush? Can’t be sure. Just imagination unrestrained added to a world of expression for the shyest quiet child coming or going.

I look at names like George Bernard Shaw, E. E. Cummings, Camus, Kahlil Gibran, and James Baldwin in my faded red book, kept all these years, and understand the beginnings of a writing destiny. I knew if ever the house caught fire, my “poetry books” had to be saved.

Now I have children.

I don’t dwell on such hypothetical scenarios anymore. I’m grateful for technology.

Silent voices in my head: But you can’t make writing a viable career choice!

The written word found me before self-awareness. Consciousness. I am compelled to do more with it than write for my enjoyment. I find the words for others, creating wider openings of soul.

Actual voices: “That’s amazing!—Really thought-provoking.”

“I have enjoyed reading…you’re such a brilliant writer.”

“I don’t like poetry, but I like what you write.”

These road markers on a lifelong writing journey let me know I’m heading in the right direction. As others of my cadre are aware, self-doubt and second-guessing are deserted roundabout traps that will have you spinning your wheels to nowhere. You work with what you have and ignore the voices in your head that tell you that before you can accept remuneration for your writing, you should be better at it. Since the process is still that never-ending thrill-seeking ride, at a minimum, I can anticipate hazard pay.

Expansion for me included reaching out with writing as empowerment for others. Write Therapy. Customizable templates addressing everything from jackasses in your life and job loss to betrayal and bereavement.

As a longstanding member born into Club Introvert, I totally get why people sometimes don’t want to talk. Meaningless unsupportive dialogue. Zero connection. Insensitive questions. Confusing questions. Stupid questions. Although no substitution for professionally certified therapy sessions, write therapy is so much better than doing nothing at all. There when ready. Yours to keep and reflect on. Silent checks and balances. Completely confidential.

Communication without talking is an introvert gold standard. No actual people required unless feeling people-ly.

Of course, there are also moments when you just don’t feel up for it. Like when facing eviction. Or a prison sentence. But the humans worry. I’ve been there. Writing as therapy is that bridge saying “I need to be left alone right now but see, you can reach me if you think I’ve stopped showering, eating, wearing clothes...

Silent voices in my head: Not much you can do with writing, really. It’s kind of limited.

As a child, I lived to write letters. Receiving mail from pen pals around the globe kept a sense of wonder that all the tech in the world couldn’t have touched had it existed back then. Everything written becomes a healing message of sorts to humanity at large. What’s the point of writing anything that won’t be uplifting, helpful, and life-altering?

I’m passionate about correspondence, so why not offer it as a service? Business or personal. Subscription or single-use option. For those incarcerated or in residential homes. In rehab or long-term care. A personal handwritten letter in the age of DMs, texts, and emails. Two completely different playing fields. Guess which one makes you feel special?

Which brings me to my handwriting. Half-born of a little sister copying oldest brother’s penmanship print style because she was so overjoyed at being allowed to print in high school (I hated writing cursive! No choice at 8-years-old.) I emerged with nuances, creating something unique, artistic, and elegant according to my peers.

No one could cheat off my test paper if they tried.

A Godmother living abroad would send me elegant expensive-looking pens as gifts by post.

My art teacher indulged and engaged me with calligraphy books. I developed a skill for that too, gaining competence in Gothic, Italic, and Uncial hand.

Actual voices: “Can you fill in certificates with calligraphy for these recipients? I’ll pay you. Name your price.”

“Would you be able to write a bio for me as the intro for my special brand of services?” – Graphic Artist

“I’d love it if you’d write out my letter in your handwriting. Could you please?”

“Your handwriting is awesome! You should turn it into a font.” (I checked and I can. Did not know that was possible.)

It’s been said that "Youth is wasted on the young" (George Bernard Shaw, 1931.) One remembered experience in a small Florida college is a poignant poster child moment. My English professor tried to explain how I could get some sort of degree in the subject and become an editor. But all I heard was the Charlie Brown cartoon adults droning, “Whomp-WAAAMP-waahh-woohhmp-wam-waammm! Editor-something, something-work-something-degree” and my professor looking unusually excited. Enough societal conditioning in my youth closed off connection circuits for anything remotely concerned with English, publishing, or media studies as a successful career choice.

There are some missed opportunities it makes no sense to get mad at yourself about. This qualifies.

During my last university experience, I became acutely aware that I was enjoying my writing assignments a bit too much as my classmates were dreading them.

Silent voices in my head: It would be difficult to get proofreading or editing clients in sufficient numbers to be profitable? There are loads of online tools for that now anyway.

Think back. Remember the nerdy kids? The ones who didn’t do what everyone else did at recess or lunch. I enjoyed reading the dictionary. I mean thoroughly enjoyed it. I read for fun. All. The. Time. Well, as often as I could (big book for an itty-bitty kid to lug around.) If being nerdy was weird, then I loved the heck outta mega weirdness!

There was a ton of standardized testing back then. My English, Spelling, and Reading/Comprehension scores were always off the charts. Even though the teachers didn’t make grammar and vocabulary very interesting, I excelled, nonetheless. I was able to help others. I guess word spread. All through my life.

I observe members of the population who enjoy domestic tasks and organizing office supplies and documentation. YAA-AWN!!! Duties that make me want to run the other way. It offers perspective for how others probably feel about proofreading and editing work. Ain’t life all that and a glass of soymilk with all these options? There’s gotta be a better word than nerdsville, but I get pleasure out of cleaning up and adding clarity to written work. It’s turning on the microphone so the most soft-spoken speaker can be heard.

Actual voices: “Can you offer me some feedback on the article I’m writing?”

“I have some creative writing pieces that I would really appreciate you sitting down with me to edit. Do you have time?”

“I’m having problems starting my essay. Can you help?”

When I consider the things that fuel the internal fires of my life, they all manifest in written form. After reading and re-reading myself and how I’m wired, it isn’t that writing for a living is outside the realm of possibility. Not writing for a living is.

I’ll start dusting off my website.

Thank you for reading about a defining passion in my life. Like and share in all digital platforms if you'd like to show support and check out my other stories here.

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