This is a love letter for the writers…
You who writes.
You who keeps on writing.
You who pours out your hurt and your joy and your bliss and your ways of being and existing and understanding onto page and screen.
You who hits the submit button again and again. Even though you’ve papered an entire wall in rejection letters, because you know that somewhere there is a home for your words and if you keep trying you will find it.
You who writes in private, in secret, in the darkest back corner of your closet after everyone else has gone to sleep just so you can write the whole of you.
You who writes to follow the trail, to chart the course, to make your own map through the mystery.
You who writes the path to your own redemption, because you know that clawing your way back to forgiveness of self is the only way through.
You who writes in silence, in a whisper, in invisible ink.
You who writes with the risk of being dismissed, dishonored, ignored because the risks of not writing are even greater.
You who writes because nobody else is willing to tell the truth and the truth must be told.
You who writes to bring the perpetrator to justice.
You who writes to fuel the revolution, to feed the fire, to create the necessary unrest.
You who writes to bring the people into the streets.
You who writes so that your children and their children and their children will know.
You who writes until you are bleeding and then uses the words to staunch the flow.
You who writes to lift others even when you are writing through the thick haze of your own tears.
You who writes to shine a harsh and uncompromising light on what is unjust, on the wrong doing, on the abuse occuring in the shadows.
You who writes to unbreak your own heart.
To you who writes to weave the magical stories that lull the babies to sleep at night.
You who writes to make visible the ones who do the hard and lonely and dangerous work and who risk it all just to stay alive.
You who writes in gratitude and thanks that you are able to bring worlds to life on paper.
You who writes to give voice to the things nobody else is willing to say.
You who writes so that the invisible can be seen, the marginalized brought to center, the spotlight moved away from the stars and onto the ones in the background who make the show go on.
You who writes to make a thing real, to recreate the past, to return to yourself, to mark in ink the path of a new beginnings.
You who writes the body. The heat and salt and sex of it. The truth of blood and vein and the secrets the bones hold. The soft and wet and want. The body that winds and dances in the shadows. The body that heals trauma by naming and claiming her own pleasure.
You who writes to claim space, to name yourself, to create a new world you can stand to live in.
You who writes to own your history or accept your present or shift your future.
You who keeps writing love letters to the one long gone or the one not yet arrived or to fall in love with the miracle of your own being.
You who writes to make peace with the ghosts, to release the steam, as a substitute for the therapy you cannot afford.
You who writes because the world inside you is so magical and so real and even if nobody else believes you it must exist somehow, represented in concrete form.
You who writes because to not write would be like a form of death, and you’ve died too many times already.
You who writes to bring us all back to life.
You who writes to set the record straight, to hold the story, to alter the dominant narrative.
You who writes to bring hope to the hopeless and give voice the the voiceless, to share the stories of the ones nobody bothers to hear.
You who writes in the face of all that would silence you.
You who writes to craft beauty in the midst of devastation.
You who writes because the force of creation is what gets you out of bed each day.
You who writes to brighten hearts and lift spirits and to make the sun rise in the sky.
You who writes like the ocean, like waves crashing and crashing and crashing again against the shore of what is real.
You who writes the dance, the movement of clouds across the sky, the way the flowers blow in the breeze.
You who writes outside of the lines. Who ignores the rules. Who has no idea about grammar or punctuation or the correct way to spell things, but who writes anyway.
You who writes in an illegible scrawl on purpose to keep the stories safe from eyes unable to see the the beauty of your truth.
You who writes words that rise like smoke and fall like ashes, still alive from the fire.
You who writes to take the swirl of chaos and confusion and, waving pen like magic wand, makes the spinning stop and the truth rise to the surface, clear and true, like a fortune teller conjuring the future from her crystal ball.
You who writes only the necessary, who casts multitudes from scarcity, who takes the story of the entire universe and reduces it to the exact few words that say everything that has ever needed to be said.
You who writes even though they told you that you could not. That should should not. Who writes over the red pen marks and bad grades from teachers who thought writing had to follow the textbook.
You who writes the things that push people up against their own limitations, their prejudice, their hard edged bias, who forces us to see the things we would rather ignore. You who are willing to endure the discomfort of pushback in order to help us all grow.
You who writes the edges and pushes the boundaries and then calls the words back into the center.
You who writes the trauma. Writes the pain. Writes the ugly words that we don’t want to read but can’t turn away from, not because you want to, necessarily, but because you know we all we need to stay present with what is real.
You who writes the worst of the hurricanes and tornadoes of reality and then keeps writing all the way into the eye of the storm where everything is peaceful and beautiful and true.
You who writes the imaginary, the fantasy, the fiction, and in the writing you conjure a world that is deeply real and alive.
To writes who writes with irrepressible joy bubbling up through your cells, giddy with the knowledge that only you could write this particular story.
You who writes in service to the cause, to the greater good.
You who writes the birth, the death, the honest everyday mundanities of our humanity. The messy and the boring and the deeply human.
You who writes to honor who has come before, to uplift the wisdom of your ancestors and the truth of those who walked the lands long before we were here.
You who writes in the stolen moments, on the grocery store receipts, who scribbles poems on the inside curve of your elbow, inking skin with novels that wash away in the shower but that mark you forever.
You who writes to create a truth that is more true than reality that you are living.
You who writes under a name not your own in order to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
You who writes to understand what you already know and to learn what you need to understand and embrace the unknowing of all that exists beyond comprehension.
You who writes to remember the details your brain will not hold.
You who writes your way into your own wide open life.
You who writes. Period.
To heal the world. To right the wrongs. To save a life.
Because you couldn’t stop, even if you tried.
It is a brave and beautiful thing to create stories in the face of all that would stop you.
You do that. And it is everything.