The Consolation of Writing

           My slightly shaking fingers hover above my laptop’s keyboard, like they have many times before I begin a new writing project. Staring at the intimidating blank screen, I bite my lip and battle a wave of nervousness and nausea. “I used to write cheerful poems, happy and life-affirming,” but now, my mind is blank, and my snack pile is empty (Boethius, 1).

As I wallow in self-pity and lament that Inspiration has turned her face from me, I am aware of a presence watching me. I spin around fully intending to unleash my frustration on whoever interrupted my writing process. One should know better than to disturb a writer.

Suddenly, I am face to face with a smiling stranger standing in my living room. Startled, I jump in my seat as my hand smacks the keyboard. Several lines of incoherent, jumbled letters appear on my computer screen as a result, but I pay them no attention.

I stare at the middle-aged woman as her eyes wander around the room landing on each object as if they somehow contain a story. She is the picture of productivity, and I have the feeling that her mind is always turning. Aside from the glasses crookedly perched on top of her head and the exotic feather earrings that graze her shoulders, one would not give her a second glance.

“Um, who are you?” I finally manage to ask.

“I am Lady Inkwell, of course,” she states as if her name is common knowledge. Moving closer to me and my laptop, she leans over my shoulder and squints at the computer screen.

Obviously, this Lady Inkwell person has no concept of personal space.

“Why are you here, Lady Inkwell?”

She straightens and tucks a flyaway hair behind her ear. “‘Should I not help you with that burden you bear…because of my teachings and the hatred of my name?’” (Boethius, 7-8).

Noticing my confusion, she asks a follow-up question. “Why haven’t you copied the feelings in your heart onto the page?”

“I guess...I’m scared,” I reply sheepishly.

“Do you enjoy writing?” she continues.

I nod my head, “Yes.”

“But you are afraid of sharing your thoughts and yourself with the world, correct?”

“I suppose so,” I say hesitantly wondering how she knew that bit of information. “Whenever I share my insecurities, doubts, and feelings through my writing, I am aware of how vulnerable I am. I give my readers a part of me.”

Lady Inkwell purses her lips for a moment. “Surely, you have encountered a story or blog post where the author shares his struggles with his readers?”

“I have, many times.”

“How do you feel whenever you read these stories?” she questions.

“Most of the time, I feel lighter. Reading about someone whose anxiety interferes with their daily life reminds me that I am not alone or abnormal. Stories that show the importance of waiting on God’s timing encourage me to be patient and know that His plans are far better than my own. I also learn from articles such as those that emphasize kindness and how it can create a domino effect.”

“See?” Lady Inkwell smiles. “You never know if your writing will touch someone in the same way. He may desperately need encouragement or a reminder that he is not alone; or he may even need a reprieve from the world for a few minutes.”

“Okay, sharing my vulnerabilities is worth being uncomfortable if it makes even one person feel better. It is so much easier, though, when my thoughts and feelings are safely stored in my journal, where only one set of eyes will read them. What if I share my writing and my readers do not like what I write?”

“You will never know unless you try,” she shrugs.

            “Is that all you are going to say? Thanks for the encouragement,” I say sarcastically.

            “You know, people who are strangers to disappointment, frustrations, and even failure are ‘the most sensitive to any slight adversity…and therefore they are the most easily upset’” (Boethius, 40). If your readers do not like your writing, then learn, try to improve, and view that disappointment as an opportunity to become a better writer.”

            “That is easier said than done,” I laugh, “but I am not going to allow fear to influence me or my writing.” I pause for a few seconds and frown. “What if I do not have anything good to say? What happens if my writing does not matter?”

            “Why do you write?” Lady Inkwell inquires.
            “What?” I ask, the question catching me off guard.

            “Why do you write in the first place?”

            I think for a moment and respond slowly, “I guess because I cannot help myself. Whenever I want to process my emotions, expand upon a story idea that pops into my head, or share what is on my mind, I pull out my journal or laptop, and the words tumble onto the page. I feel as if a weight has been lifted when I write.”

            Lady Inkwell’s face mirrored that of parents’ when their child has inadvertently admitted he was wrong and the parents were correct.

            “Just write,” I mumble. “I write for myself first. Then, I can revise and rewrite later.” I pause, as a thought takes root in my mind. “I guess life is like that too, isn’t it? It is an infinite series of rewrites. One is always learning and growing.”

            Expecting Lady Inkwell to follow my previous sentence with a lecture, words of wisdom, or an affirmation, I look to the spot where she was last standing. She is nowhere to be found, as if she vanished into thin air.

            I stare at the Word document with a renewed fervor and take a deep breath.

            Then, I begin to write.