Writing is simple. Just type words onto a page, and there you are. Writing.
Good writing is more difficult. Character, style, grammar, inspiration, humor, honesty, clarity, research – there are so many components to creating any type of written work – fiction or nonfiction, creative or academic, comedic or tragic. Still, with proper training and natural skills, people can begin to type on a blank document with their brain dials only turned to 50 percent.
Telling your story, however, is much more difficult. More frightening. More time consuming. And more rewarding.
In playwriting class today, I attempted to convince the class that I lacked the ability to write dialogue because of my struggle with social skills. Being an Aspie has made character interactions the most difficult element of writing for me. My classmates and professor glanced at me in confusion as they talked over each other, saying sweet but rather cliche words about finding “my voice.”
“But I don’t want to populate the world with just me!” I finally blurted out.
Laugh if you want. Of course the comment “You want to populate the world, Anna Rose?” was made. I simply meant that I did not want to write a show where everyone was exactly like me.
“Anna Rose, you have a story to tell.” One of my classmates extended her arms toward me, exclaiming loud enough to make the others stop offering advice and listen. “And your story is amazing!”
Many people have said similar remarks before, but I constantly forget the importance of my story, of your story, of every person’s story.
We all have a tale to tell, one that is both completely unique and relatable enough to communicate our deepest emotions to others. Each story is filled with tender moments fragile enough to be shattered by a breath but strong enough to demolish a wall, stages of rocking the auditorium before breaking your guitar yet ending Mozart’s “Requiem in D minor” to face a teary piano teacher, mountains scaled that left you collapsed at the top with need for aid or shouting to the sky as you surveyed the earth below, and love mixed with pain.
Why are we so silent about our stories? Worse yet, why do we silence others when they tell their stories? Why are we so frightened about finding comfort in understanding the uniqueness and sameness in those around us?
My blog has been a place to tell my story. Being open about it still embarrassing me at times. However, I am beginning to slowly learn that my story is not just about me; my story is a journey of hope, light, love, faith, and resilience that can inspire others in their stories.
That is truly a beautiful thing.