“You don’t know me,” she went on confidently. “But I read your columns all the time, and I feel like I know you." Even though you don’t know me, you’re my friend. It’s like we’ve known each other for years.” I smiled uncertainly, not knowing quite what to say. She grabbed my hand, squeezed it, looked at me as if we had sat next to each other all through fourth grade, and left.
It was a life changing moment. Suddenly, irrevocably, I understood the power of words and the gift of vulnerability. All I’d done was sit in my room and write, week after week, wondering if anyone cared. Little did I realize when I pushed “send” that I was placing a tiny part of my soul in a place where others could reach out and touch it.
It was a kind of communion that transcended the awkwardness of first meetings and introductions. From something as dry and tedious as a word limit, I learned to get right to the heart of what I wanted to say. In sharing so intimately what is real and important to me, I’ve learned that I’m not so different from anyone else, just a little better maybe at putting the human experience into words.
So, what about Susan? The statistics of who I am, columnist who graduated from the University of North Carolina with a degree in Journalism, friend of the same kind of people who populate your life, mother of three people who have taught me far more about life than I have ever taught them, registered nurse with a background in psychiatric nursing and substance abuse counseling; these are only words on a page.
The question, “What about Susan?” is answered every time I write. Who I am, what I believe in enough to fight for it, my frustration with politics for an elite few, the dilemma of pain we can do nothing about, what is good and right in the world; it’s all there.
In writing this column I’ve learned that if I want people to actually care about what I’m trying to say, I must allow them to know who I am. Without communion with the reader, I’m just a faceless voice giving an opinion, a talking head. If I engage only the eyes and the mind, and never touch home in the core of the person who is reading my words, writing is worse than futile. It becomes a tasteless waste of everyone’s time.
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