Glitter on the Page

I always found myself drawn to the literary scene. Coffee shops were just beginning to pop up in the ’90s and despite my distaste for coffee at the time, I would try to catch the latest book readings or slam poetry sessions whenever I could. I tried to fit the scene: blue jeans, white top and a black blazer, or just a black long sleeved turtleneck. I carried my laptop and notebooks in my messenger bag. And black leather boots. Even though it was a warm island night, always the boots. I loved those boots. I was such a lit nerd with them. Made me feel so grown up – not the third-year in college that I really was.

My notebooks were filled with random poems and attempts at short stories. My dream to write a novel was quickly thwarted by my juvenile attempts at character development and lack of an imaginative plot. I couldn’t think of anything “new.” Everything had already been done and I just felt like a copycat.  I dreamed of being a writer. Being one of those people behind the table at the bookstores, signing my name on the very first page of a brand new book. I bathed myself with thoughts of my words reaching hundreds, if not thousands, of people. My words. The words I had the courage to write.

But that’s just it. Courage.

When it came time to write, my words became monotonous. They lost feeling. Everything felt very…factual. It seemed so forced that I couldn’t write anymore. The words that danced in my head, could not find their way to the page. Occasionally, I could muster a sprinkling of them in my poetry – but only for a short while and only in little bursts. But even those little glitters got lost among the dry words that surrounded them.  I was a writer who couldn’t write.  Not the way I wanted to.

My love for writing was born when I was in eighth grade after I lost a loved one. I had trouble processing the events and my English teacher encouraged me to write the story of what had happened. My hand ached from furiously writing down every moment I could remember, but some things I couldn’t because I had already started to block them out. There were no computers back then, so all my words lived on the paper – even if they were crossed out, or squished between sentences, they were there. As I recalled the moments of the event, tears began streaming down my face and dripped onto the lined paper, splattering them and smudging them just a bit, as if they were trying to create art with my words.  I remember writing through swollen eyes and before each blink to release the tears, the words seemed to dance on the page – just for a moment. Although I didn’t understand it then, my path was being shown to me – just for a moment. Even though I didn’t know Him then, He was there. And I saw Him.  Just for a moment.

I continued writing, but it was not very well according to academic standards. I lacked the extensive vocabulary expected of me at my high school, and I scored very low on my SAT Verbals. I shrugged off the idea that writing was for me. Maybe it wasn’t. I was meant to be something different. Towards the end of high school and into my Freshman year of college, I had pretty much avoided any course that expected massive amounts of reading, writing, and analysis. My brain just wasn’t wired for it.

Then life dealt me another blow right before I turned 20. Again, a loss of a loved one. Again, trouble processing. Again, I picked up the pen. The words poured out of me. Like water bursting through a broken dam, they gushed recklessly and without direction. They needed to get out. They had been cooped up for so long. And then the raging river reduced itself to a trickle.  I was all out. Much like how I had felt with my life at the time, I was done. I didn’t want to hurt anymore so I shut it off again. But this time, it was just for a moment. Because what I realized during that storm, was the surge of power hidden in my words. And I knew it was meant for something greater.  If I could just find it again.

So there I was sitting in a coffee shop. Sipping on hot cocoa, pretending it was coffee. In my literary boots. Listening to an author reading his words. Trying to find my own rhythm. Trying to find my own words. But as hard as I tried, they were only revealed to me in small moments – like tears on the page. Although I didn’t understand it then, I needed to do one more thing before I could tame the raging river inside of me.

Until tomorrow, my friends.

~ Jenn