Dearest readers, writers, lovers of words and idle perusers of the internet,

I never intended to become a writer.

One day the words were simply there, and the words would not stop, and really, it is only so much cerebral diarrhea, an accident of too-much held for too-long, by a girl who sees too-much and feels even-more, a girl with a pretty vocabulary and a flair for whimsy.

And then, I found that the words were healing me.

But, more importantly, I found that the words were healing Us.

Through stories of grandparents, or personal anecdotes, silly essays, articles on depression, the tale of my nervous interruption, I have received many loving notes. About your stories. Your loves. Your struggles. Your lives,

And readers, writers, lovers, perusers, that is why I write.

Because, you. 

You showed me that we were connected. That through the words, we are One. We share common struggles, no less meaningful because of their commonality, but more so, because they bring us together. In love, in suffering, in joy. We are the same, and we are different, and we learn, and we share. I have been humbled and overjoyed by these connections.

Truly.

I am not an expert on anything, except perhaps moonbeams. I dabble in many things, and like a bumblebee, I am eager to taste each flower and fly as far and wide as I can before I return home each night. I struggle—daily. Since becoming a “writer”, I have struggled in some aspects even more.

Writing, for me, is to bleed from my heart. My soul. To spend hours, days, creating spaces that are safe for the reader to relax.

To find solace.

To be at home.

That is why I write.

Because I have always found solace, comfort, in the words.

And now that is what I seek to create.

And readers, I do it so gladly. With so much love.

Because, for me, it is not about the clicks or the shares or the popularity contest. It is not about pride, or my name, or getting noticed because I am a Hotshot.

Briefly, I began to worry about that. And I found that not only could I not write, but I could not hear my heart.

She was silent.

The reason?

The words are not mine. They never were. These words are through me, not from me. I am merely the channel. I write, not because I can, or because I think I am good at it, or because I have a burning desire to see my byline. I write, simply, because I must. The words poke at me, and nudge me, and tell me that they must be written, must be put down, must get out.

That stories must be told. That silence cannot be held, any longer.

Dearest readers, writers, lovers and perusers,

I owe you an apology.

I am a writer, yes, and that is my trade. But the reason that I write can never be forgotten, and will never be again.

I write for us.

I write for healing.

I write in hopes that my words are a mere shadow of words that lay dormant in the deepest, darkest parts of your heart.

A shadow of a sunbeam in the brightest, happiest corners of your smile.

Because words, after all, can only ever be shadows. Skeletons of feeling.

What is the most well written love story in comparison to the first time, the first moment that you look into your lover’s eyes and think, this is it?

Just a bunch of letters.

So, readers, writers, lovers, perusers—I am sorry. I failed you. In this business, and yes, dearest, it is a business, authenticity is everything, and I promise, here and now, that I will never write again once it stops being authentic.

It almost did.

So, now, let me ask you.

What do you need, dearest?

How can I serve with my humble and jumble of shadows and bones?

This is about community, service, sharing, connection and love.

I will not forget it.

Humbly yours,

Monk

~

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Editor: Rachel Nussbaum

Photos: Stojanovski/Pixoto, Smith/Pixoto