In recent weeks I have been trying to map out my life. Again. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through this exercise and I know it won’t be the last. Even so, I am trying to work out what direction to take with my writing and, because the two are so intertwined, with my life. If I’m being honest, I have been on the edge of an existential crisis where my writing is concerned since I was about 14, maybe 15. Of course, I am also aware that when my mind is filled with all of the things of day-to-day life and figuring out different aspects of life, it makes writing more of a challenge because the words get drowned out by the practicalities of bills and finances and meals and the like.
In the process of working through these questions, my husband and I were discussing different factors around my writing—fiction versus nonfiction, novels versus plays, faith-based versus non-faith-based, and whether to write at all. As we talked, my husband asked me some leading questions and, because of our passionate back and forth, each of our girls checked in, wondering if we were arguing about something, and, if not, what was going on. In those kinds of moments, I am always as transparent as I can be about my own uncertainty about what I’m trying to do or create or figure out.
And as we continued talking about writing and stories, my husband asked me if the idea of writing a play gave me butterflies. I am fairly certain I stared at him blankly for several moments before responding with my own question: are you saying that you get a sense of butterflies when you work on music? To which he admitted, yeah, sometimes. Our girls, who were also now involved at least peripherally at this point, also indicated they had a similar kind of sense when working on something that inspired excitement or anticipation within them. I found myself both enthralled and, well, more than a little envious as I admitted I wasn’t sure I’d ever experienced that kind of sensation with my writing.
All three of them were quick to assure me that I more than likely had, but I wasn’t so sure. And then my youngest looked me in the eyes and told me, it might have been different for you because we don’t all experience things the same way. For several moments, I simply stared at her as she smiled back at me. That’s what you always tell us, she added with a shrug, her smile even wider. Because I couldn’t quite recall those wise words she claimed I’d told her and her sister, I asked her to repeat them to me (because I needed to hear my words in their voice, I suppose). And so she did, reminding me that when they have had similar questions to mine, I tell them that they might experience things differently than someone else, but that doesn’t make their experience any less valid. In that moment, her words, her voice, was like the beam from a lighthouse, guiding me away from the shallows and the rocks on which I might become stuck.
I love so much about this. I love that not only do they hear what I say to them, but they have internalized at least some of it enough to be able to repeat it back to me when I need to hear it. I love that my words help them when they are in a place of questioning things. I love that they are invested in me and my life and my pursuit of writing enough to rally around me when I am in a place of seeking and searching and questioning. I love that they have my words and their voice; but they also have their words and their voice, and I love that even more. I hear those words when they are creating, when they are hanging out and laughing about their childhood escapades, and when they share something they created with me. And I also hear those voices, voices of self-advocacy, of celebration, of pride, of accomplishment, and that brings me joy. I’m still not quite sure where I’m heading with my writing, but I do know I am grateful to be on my journey with these two incredible young women who inspire and encourage me in so many ways.