I want to make a difference.
I want to touch hearts.
I want to smile.
I want to make others smile.
I want to be good at something.
I want to be good for someone.
I want to inspire.
I want to be inspired.
What do you want?
S. J. Henderson Books |
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I want to be somebody.
I want to make a difference. I want to touch hearts. I want to smile. I want to make others smile. I want to be good at something. I want to be good for someone. I want to inspire. I want to be inspired. What do you want?
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I'm currently in a holding pattern, waiting for beta-readers to finish up with my first book and get back to me with their comments. Another writer confessed to me that the waiting period always makes her nervous. It made me think.
As a writer, you spend thousands of hours pouring words onto a page or screen. Ideas are born, full of promise and excitement. You grow and change with each character. Together you encounter a full range of problems, from tiny bumps to impassable mountains. When tears roll down their cheeks, your tears follow suit. Heart in throat, you wait by their side as their last breath falls from still lips. After 'The End', you discover that you've become someone richer in experience than the person you were before it all began. To share that with others, especially others whose goal it is to point out your scars and imperfections, is frightening. It is opening yourself--and your new friends--to attack, no matter how well-intentioned your attacker. It is lowering your defenses in the hopes that the arrows will serve to build you up rather than fatally wound. You make yourself vulnerable. Vulnerability is unnatural for us. In many ways, this feedback process is like falling in love. It is delivering your beating heart on a platter and hoping it returns safely--that they love in return. It is trusting that the other person has only the best intentions, only the purest motives. It is the hope that they are skilled in architecture and demolish only what they must in order for us to rebuild stronger and more complete. There is such great and awful responsibility in love and art. Maybe you don't write and you find it difficult to relate to my illustration because of that. That's okay. I think it still applies to many of our passions, not only the crafting of sentences. Do what you do with love, because of love. Accept the help of others with love. Extend your hand to others with truth and compassion. Making yourself vulnerable and opening your heart to others is scary. Sometimes you'll bleed and wish you'd kept your shield tucked tight around your chest. At other times, bringing others alongside you on the journey reveals unspeakable beauty. The joy is nearly always worth the splinters along the way. My skull wrenched into pieces. A blistering flash of light pierced my vision, though I tried protecting myself by squeezing my eyelids shut. And then, quiet.
*** My eyes popped open, startled awake by the sound of the taxi’s tire thudding in a pothole. I could feel my heart galloping within my chest, and I took a deep breath to calm myself. Of all the things that could go wrong in an automobile, a heart attack seemed the most ironic. I mean, you’re driving along, all safe and proper one minute, and then your body quits on you... and CRASH! Sayonara! Cars aren’t really my thing. I distracted myself by leaning forward, towards the driver, a middle-aged guy wearing a faded baseball cap and a grey t-shirt that definitely had seen better days. “How much longer?” I asked loudly enough so my voice carried over the annoying twang of the country song he’d been humming along to. Talking out loud hurt my brain, and I pressed my palm onto my forehead to slow the vibration. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall the last word I’d spoken out loud, and now I remembered why. Everyone thought I kept silent because I wanted my space. And, yes, I wanted people to leave me alone--but, most of all, I wanted this God-awful pain to disappear. Keeping my mouth shut helped, or, at least, it drove others away so I didn’t have to perform like a circus animal. “We should be to Mitte in ten minutes. You okay?” The driver asked, his concerned eyes peeking at me from the rearview mirror. I nodded in response even though he’d turned his focus back to the road. Immediately, a stab of discomfort shot up my neck. He didn’t seem too concerned at my lack of response, and completely ignored me when I sucked in a breath at the painful movement. His lack of concern didn’t bother me, though. I’d reached my limit of how many times I could lie about feeling good, especially when those asking couldn’t fix me even if I told the truth. |
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November 2019
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