Word Up

- Emily Dickenson

There was a time when words spoken and words written had meaning. They still do, of course. But, sadly, they are spoken less frequently, and when written, come now to us in muted strings of 140 characters, or in Facebook posts that only highlight the victories of our lives. But there is no real wisdom in the garbled haikus of Twitter. No defeat in the glamorous posts on Facebook.

I think the world would be a better place if people were just willing to bleed a little in public. Not in a self-pitying way, not to play the martyr, but rather to more genuinely proclaim their humanity. Because there is a strength to be found in sharing our weaknesses, to help each other. As Hemingway says, “"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." It’s our job to seek those with wounds that match, to advise, and wounds that don’t match, to consult.

A word is a living thing. Spoken. Written. Conveyed. So often, we don’t take time for them anymore, and as a result, it is a crime each day how many moments of love, connection and encouragement are lost forever, sacrificed on the altar of our newsfeeds and work deadlines. Until, one day, you wake up and say, “Waitaminutenow. Hold on. I…have something…I want…to say.” If your heart is right, this moment is not followed by an egotistical “Listen to me!” but rather in a humble, contrite, nauseatingly vulnerable “Will you hear me?”

I write stories because of words. It is in their architecture that I can find a way…to you, to others...and invite you in. A story is a building, the opening the foyer and each chapter a room. Once the tour is over, all I can hope for is that I will find you in the study, warming yourself by the fire, a little richer for the experience before you head back out into the world that is your life.

And if that world is sometimes cold and lonely? If I have been blessed enough in the telling of the thing, you will have been given a story that sparks a fire in you that will never go out.