The Unwritten

The number of words I have buried simply by not giving them life is extraordinary. The fear of getting it wrong and the fear of what people think has owned my writing life…I mean, flat out stolen it. So much so that it has just been easier to stay silent. Until now.

The other day someone who is reading inJustice asked, “Did you really write this?” It seemed that they were shocked that I had that kind of creativity within me. I was shocked that they were shocked by this. After all, I know that I am a writer.

But how would anyone else know?! I haven’t given life to any new words in months and the one book I did write, I hide as if it were unwritten.

The last several years have been what I suppose I can identify as my burial years. You see, just a short time after I published inJustice, the story of me and my mother…she died. When we buried her, the hope for complete restoration between us went 6-feet under. This very day that I write this is the date that my dad died. Neither of my parents would be okay with sorrow silencing my creativity.

I’ve been calling myself a writer for a while now. How can a writer not write any words and still call themselves a writer? I feel as if I’ve been living a lie of sorts. I’d like to rectify this by getting busy. I have another book to write and I’m tired of waking up every morning only to throw more dirt on my dream…

I cannot bring to life what is already gone. It’s beyond my power. But, I can wake up each morning with the willingness to whisper a few of those unwritten words.