When it comes to words, specifically, the written word, there are two kinds of people, as I see it. There are writers, and then there are those who write.
Writers are important people, special people, gifted people. They use their craft to earn or living and bring about change. They write books and songs and magazine articles and report the news. They’re published. They’re famous, the scale of which isn’t so important because fame is entirely subjective. Writers encourage us to read and make us want to read. A writer can make you laugh, make you cry, make you smile, or make you vote for a political party. Perhaps, for me anyway, most importantly, writers make you think. They make you ask questions. Maybe of yourself, or maybe of others. Good writing generates good dialogue, or I think it should.
Then there are people who write. These people don’t expect to be read, and don’t really care if they’re read because they probably don’t think they’re good enough to be read. Some of them write journals, some of them write blogs, some of them write girls phone numbers on napkins in coffee shops. Some write for fun, some write to hone their craft with aspirations of being published, some write because. That’s it. Just because. And you know what? That’s OK.
I am just someone who writes. My dear friend Carrie will argue this. But she also invited me over to punch me in the face once. She says she was joking. She probably won’t be after she reads this. We debate the writer vs someone who writes deal often. I get to win because it’s my blog. I digress. Since I don’t very often find myself writing down girls phone numbers on napkins at coffee shops; something I like to think has more to do with the fact that I don’t drink coffee than it does with the fact that no girl would ever give me her phone number, I write for therapy.
I assure you I am not mental. Not yet. Or, not entirely. I suppose that could be considered subjective as well. For the sake of argument though, lets assume my mental faculties or mostly in tact. When I say I write for therapy, I just mean that it’s a good way for me to get stuff out there. Sometimes I just need to get stuff out there. If 300 people read it, if 3 people read it, if nobody ever reads it, is of little consequence.
My friends whom are closest to me have a small insight into how my mind works. I tell them I’ll never let them fully understand because once they are in there, there is no turning back. Basically though, they know that sometimes, I’ve got to vent. It could take 5 minutes. It could take 50 minutes. Their job, and God bless each one of them for doing it so well, is to sit and listen. Sometimes I’ve just got to throw everything out there from the completely probable to the utterly ridiculous. It’s not that I believe it all, it’s just that I need to get it out in the open so I can begin the process of sifting through it and making sense of it.
My friends that I chat with online are the lucky ones. Especially on the 50 minute sessions. For all I know they’ve long since left the computer. They could be outside mowing the lawn, or eating a banana split or going for a swim. All the while, I’m just typing away, blabbing away, venting away. As long as they come back before I’m finished, I’d never know they left. Even in their absence, the session is just as effective because I got everything out in the open. Of course, having just said this, for those that hadn’t got the bright idea to go for a banana split during one of my venting episodes, they’ll now likely do it. This means I’ll have to start asking random questions in the midst of everything, just to be sure they are still there!
After I’m done, after I’ve let it all out, and when I’ve completed the process of sifting through it and finding sense, if any sense is to be found, I write. That’s what you see. That’s what you read. My therapy. Dr Phil it is not, but it’s real.
It can be an intimidating thing, I admit this. Once it’s out there, on this world wide web, I’m exposed. Vulnerable. Open. One day, I suppose, that could come back to haunt me. Thus far it hasn’t. I like to tell myself – though I promise not out loud – that maybe I’m not as crazy as I think I am. Maybe we’re all just a bunch of people taking up space in the cosmos, dealing with the same stuff, thinking about the same things, sorting through the same chaos caused by same problems. Brothers and sisters. Like God intended it.
If my blood sister needed my help, I’d give it. I’d likely tease her for a while, or make her beg for it a little, but eventually I’d help her. So maybe some of the things I write, and some of the things you read will help you too.
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