To: The Person Scared to Share Their Work

I remember one of the first times I wanted to be a writer.

I had just finished a project for school based on the book ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ by Harper Lee, and brought it downstairs to show my mom.  I decided for my creative element, I’d create a fictional diary belonging to the character Scout. I hand-stitched made to look old pages into a scrap of leather I’d found in a craft box in our basement. Carefully, I’d pasted typed pages of entries I’d written all from the point of view of the young heroine. Mementos of adventures she’d gone on were tucked into the flimsy pages, waiting to be discovered by the reader (in this case, my teacher). 

Mind you, this may have been the first project I went a little over top on, but certainly not the last. 

I carefully brought my finished diary downstairs, not wanting any of the tokens I’d created to fall out on my way there. My mom flipped through the pages, reading each entry thoughtfully. I stood, silently gaping over her shoulder, hopeful for her approval. 

She slid the notebook across the dining room table with a smile crossing her mouth. 

‘You are an author,’ she spoke. Her words hit like honey to a place I didn’t know needed to be sweetened. 

Why, yes! I am a writer. It felt right. The words on the page, the fictional perspective, the storytelling — even the stitching of the cover!

I had created something with my own two hands and imagination and I was proud. I felt like ‘me’ when I was writing. I felt like I’d found some part of myself I didn’t know was in me all along. I found Ann Catherine, the writer. 

I turned in the journal to be graded, but once returned, I tucked the newly prized possession on the bookshelf beside my desk. The same shelf holding ‘Little House on the Prairie’ and all the ‘Magic Treehouse’ books, now held my beloved creation, ‘Scout’s Diary.’ 

Life went on and in high school I convinced myself I was meant to be a doctor because doctor’s save people, and by golly, I wanted to save people! It felt important, and I so badly wanted to be important. 

I would love to go back and tap myself on the shoulder to whisper, ‘ya know, creative people save lives too.’ Because they do. They save the soul and the spirit, the parts of oneself the world shuts down with lies, insecurities and comparison. The beautiful creative things we hold up for one another to behold, those are the wonders reviving our insides in ways a shock machine simply never will. What’s that old Script song? Still alive but I’m barely breathing? I need to breathe fully and freely, taking in big gulps of air whenever I want. I don’t want to be still alive, but barely breathing. Plus, I don’t remember the Script song being a particularly hopeful one.

I sat on an old front porch with my friend Jayci the other day and we gazed up at the old oak trees above us. She is an artist too. Not usually with words, but in paint and design and videos. She sees pigment and lines where I see stories and songs. 

We were talking efervescently about the task of creating and where it fits into our society, ways it matters in the world. Both of us believe in divine creation. We believe God created everything; people, lush green grass, mountains and brooks. I like to think when He created trees he carefully spoke each type of leaf into being, laughing as he knew not only would they provide beauty and shade, they’d be functional. They’d give us oxygen. The trees would take the poisonous carbon dioxide and send out air for us to breathe in and live. When we create, I like to imagine I’m taking the fumes of the world and letting out melodies and words of hope. I want to believe my words help people breathe again. Writing them certainly helps me breathe easier.

My mom’s words over a decade and a half ago showed me writing was my way of making oxygen. My friend helps people breathe in brushstrokes and pen. Other friends of mine create new air every time they welcome someone into their coffee shop and pour a familiar face a latte. 

I still have Scout’s diary. The leather-bound notebook sits on the second ledge of my bookshelf for anytime I need a nudge of confidence. I am a writer, I say to myself, pen poised on the paper. 

It’s part of how I’m made. This was true at ten and it’s still rings true at twenty-three. I may have forgotten for a bit, especially as I sat in pre-med classes my freshman year of college and pretended to care about chem lab reactions. But I should’ve known then, I couldn’t look away from my original design. That same year, I’d spend hours tapping away at blog posts in coffee shops when I should’ve been studying organic chemistry equations. I’d offer to write captions for our college ministry and I’d write lyrics on the back of Spanish class notes.

Original design is a hard part of yourself to omit for the sake of everyone else accepting you. Over the past month I’ve been trying to post a poem everyday on instagram to get myself writing again. For some reason, posting my words feels showy. But then a friend responded to a poem and wrote with a big emphatic, YES. I took the chance to air my grievances and tell her why I wasn’t sure about posting these poems. Her response: it’s actually the opposite. It’s far more selfish to hold your gifting close to your chest. Ever since then I see it differently. I am writing to help myself breathe, and hopefully in the process, I’ll give others the chance to do the same.

So as the trees give us oxygen, I give us words. As my friend give us paintings, another give us coffee. May what we release be as sweet to others as my mom’s words were to me back in fifth grade.