Dear Readers,
My journey as a writer started when I was just a child. I can remember the early days of my writing, when I began to recognize the power of words.
From poems to short stories, I began to string words together, crafting my art little by little. I saw even then how deeply words could resonate with the experience of others—and how validating that could be.
For so much of my life, I dreamed of being a writer.
As I got older, I began to write more. I filled journal after journal with poetry and stories. I spent every spare moment writing on napkins and torn notebook pages whatever thoughts came to mind. I was fearless in sharing my work with others, and it seemed like I would never stop writing.
The change began in college. As a college student working full-time to support myself, I had little time for anything outside of work and study. Gradually, my writing fell away. I moved from undergraduate to graduate school and took on more responsibility at work as well.
I got married. I had children. The reality of my adult life was often such that I thought writing was an impossible dream, a dream meant for someone with more time and more money who could afford the luxury.
And time passed.
In the months leading up to my separation and filing for divorce, a strange thing happened.
Phrases started to run through my head. Words in distinct rhythms would play in my head over and over again. I would have no peace until I took pen to paper to release them. I could be cooking or in a bath; the words came in their own timing. They hounded and haunted me.
Soon, I was writing again. I completed a children’s book, and then another. After years of hardly writing at all, I had two complete manuscripts sitting in front of me.
After my divorce, I toyed with the idea of sharing some of my thoughts on Elephant Journal. At first, I balked at the idea of sharing anything so private with the public. It took courage to finally take the chance.
I submitted my first piece and released the breath it felt like I’d been holding for years.
It’s been about four months and 50-plus published articles. As an official columnist for Elephant Journal and a contributor for another publication, I easily claim the title “writer.” The children’s books I wrote are also in the publication process. Writing has become a part of my daily routine, as natural as breathing.
While I’ve been on this journey, I have often thought about the experience of being a writer. Writing is a personal and powerful process. The act of writing down our thoughts is terrifying, validating and empowering. We’re made vulnerable when we choose to share our deeply private experiences in a public forum.
As we write about our own thoughts and feelings to help make sense of them, we’re also reaching out to others to be of benefit in their journey.
It’s a strangely powerful, yet intimate experience to connect with so many people we’ve never met, simply through the art of writing. It takes courage, but I have found that this type of courage is nearly always rewarded.
No matter how many articles I write or how many other projects I complete as a writer, I live in a state of gratitude for the process. Not just for the process of writing out my thoughts and feelings and gaining clarity in that way, but also for my ability to connect with other people.
I am humbled and eternally thankful for the support I’ve received from total strangers and the well wishes that have come my way.
Writing for me is necessary.
It’s not a luxury or dream for someone with more time or money. It’s my dream.
Elephant Journal was the first to give me the opportunity to live inside of that dream, to share my words here with you. And as I read the messages that I receive about how deeply my articles have resonated, I can only say that writers must write in the way that painters must paint. It’s an art that demands as much as it rewards.
Over the last few days, I’ve written in a frenzy. Sleep evades, and I’m left with black words on a white page, spilling out nearly faster than I can type them. Leaning into each other and toppling over, forming thoughts almost before I have time to absorb them, becoming something deeper and stronger than I imagined. They bleed together and jostle for space. Often they transform into something I didn’t intend or could not have predicted.
All I know is that I need to write.
The process is powerful and personal, intimate and moving. This is what it means for me to be a writer, and every day I am grateful for the gift—even when I’m wrung out, exhausted, desperate for sleep and a rest from the words—because the writing brings me here with you.
You read the words, and I write them. Through this process, we connect.
And the web of support spins outward, connecting us to one another through our shared experiences. As the storyteller, I know my stories are only powerful when they’re shared, and perhaps you will read my story and it will become a part of yours. And when you tell your story it may become a part of someone else’s. And in this way we are all connected.
Namaste, in practice. My divinity and yours. We are all connected in this. And so I sit inside of this gratitude and stand inside of it and lie down at night cocooned in it.
So I offer this tribute, from my heart to yours, with many thanks.
Love,
A Writer
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Relephant Read:
Say It Loud! I’m a Writer and I’m Proud!
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Author: Crystal Jackson
Editor: Toby Israel
Image: elephant journal on Instagram // Florian Klauer/Unsplash
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