Dear Writer,
Oh, love. I see you there behind the keyboard, hands to the ready, fingers itching to type, mind whirling with the story–or stories–you want to tell.
Three years ago I was just the same, dear writer. And today I am the same.
The distance between today and three years ago is too great to tell.
Dear writer, I need you to know that this will possibly be the hardest thing you will do, and this is coming from a girl who has done, willingly and more often unwillingly, many very hard things.
Love, this world is not kind. This world today does not see art the way we dreamers do. It is learning to, I believe, but only because it is lit with the passions of men who believed they could fly. The starry sky over my head tonight is flecked with traces of dreams that came true.
Dreamer, this world does not see with your eyes. It does not see the love, hope, passion, freedom, and grace that light up the room when you write. It does not see the pain, blood, tears, and sorrow poured out into the pages you cherish. It does not see how your heart bleeds ink, my love. It does not see the changing tides and the crescendo of the ocean in a path of moonlight.
This world is made of people like you and I, and sometimes… sometimes people are cruel. Sometimes people are angry. Sometimes people don’t understand.
I do not wish for you to expect cruelty, dear one, only to be aware that it is there. And that not only is it laid out with heavy hands and unseeing hearts, but sometimes it is laid out with sugar smiles and candy tricks.
Dreamers, too often our hearts are tender. I think it makes our task on this earth easier. We bleed stories, after all. I would not see you grow cold in your heart and mind. I would not see those hands grow still. I would not see those dreams die.
My love, this world is not kind. How can it be? It has known so much hurt, so much bitterness and strife. It too bleeds, but it doesn’t know how to use its stories to heal.
Dearest writer, that is what I would wish for you. I wish that the stories you write, the stories you dream of, would be a part of something that heals. And love, it’s okay if the thing that heals is yourself. You are a part of this world too, after all, and you too are worthy of healing and hope.
I do not mean for you to only write soft things, tender things, easy things. Setting a bone is not soft or easy, but it must be done for healing to happen well. Healing is not only soft cotton bandages and pastel flowers. Healing is gritted teeth and sharp edges and a scream that cuts through the air like a knife.
Dearest writer, this is what I wish for you.
Write.
Allow yourself to be afraid, because oh my love, you will be so very very afraid.
But do not let the fear destroy your dreams.
Do not let the cruelty of others break you. Grieve for it, always, but do not let it dictate your choices.
Be angry. Be hard.
Be soft. Be loving.
Writer, be passionate, and in your passion, you can touch this world.
And with a touch, maybe, healing can begin.
Love, Annie
Copyright June 27th, 2018