I’ve spent the last fifteen years creating spaces – voids – to dump my rambling thoughts and occasional poetry into, only to inevitably destroy it all and pretend it never happened. It’s that familiar moment when you, as a writer, wake up to find that what you poured your real thoughts, feelings, and skills into were – for lack of a better word – shit. Whether they truly are shit or not is irrelevant to you in that moment; you’ve seen yourself in a new light and suddenly, none of it’s all that pretty anymore. Your anonymity has shattered and you, now, are known. You’ve been seen. You’ve made human connection and it was terrifying.

Then, in a few months or so, you feel the urge to start again. You get lonely or you write something you really feel good about and the urge to put yourself out there one more time is entirely too enticing. So you try again and the cycle restarts. At least, that’s how it’s always worked for me. I typically write from familiarity and the consequences of that are not being able to write when pain doesn’t feel so poetic or I don’t have the energy to be introspective.

It’s not a big deal when you’re a teenager. It’s not even a big deal when you’re in your early twenties. Eventually though, you hit a point when you’re faced with your own fear of being seen and you have to decide: will I or won’t I?

Of course I will, or I wouldn’t be here. Because I have to. Because it’s always been writing. Like a long-time friend you’ve loved and could never fully commit to because you weren’t brave enough or you were too distracted by other things in life or you were simply too immature (blind, maybe) to notice, but even so – it’s always been them. Always will be. I chose this as a child and just couldn’t seem to let it go. A couple years of running from it can’t erase what I know is true.

The reality is, I don’t care if one person reads what I have to say or one million (maybe a million is a little frightening, admittedly) – I simply have to do it. So, it’s here. For whoever, whenever.

I was so ready to be a writer until I got hit full-force with that not-so-poetic pain I mentioned. I was so ready and motivated and, for a while, I didn’t care who saw me. It wasn’t my best writing, technically-speaking, but I was fearless and that’s something I will always admire about her: the pre-major-unexpected-life-changes version of me. She tried and tried and tried, even if she looked stupid in the end.

So, I took a break. I sought out being as unknowable as I could manage. I discovered parts of me I buried, feelings I never acted on, decisions I regretted (while making decisions I knew I would come to regret), and given the circumstances, it was necessary. Built character, or something like that. Even though it left me a little unsteady, I found safety. Relief. Quiet. And now, thank God, I can write again. I have been writing, in secret. I’m sitting on books and books worth of poetry and stories waiting to be edited for publication…and I’ll get there. Editing is my favorite part, after all.

All in all to say, I’m mostly shouting into an empty void right now, but I know I won’t be forever. That’s okay. I’ll stay.