Meet Truly.

Write out of the darkness.
It is both where I need to go, and how I need to get there. 

But I’ve been wondering. Am I merely a composite of all the different characters floating around in my head? Or am I really someone totally different? Hidden under the rubble. Without an identity. Until I create the next one. And all this hiding and creating is the only way I can connect with and communicate with the world.

These are the questions all writers ask themselves late at night when the voices in their heads keep them from sleep and what little we do sleep keeps muting the voices. It’s a frustrating existence, but one I seem doomed to repeat.

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe the only way out is up. Maybe there will come a time when all that is in darkness will be made light, and then the weight will no longer be there. Maybe. 

It’s so much easier to just tell your story in pieces. Pieces of other people. It’s not quite so scary that way. If Stephanie has a hard stretch in her marriage or Dustin is dealing with a drug problem or Katie was abused, then we can all read about them and feel a sort of camaraderie.  A connection that happens as we weave together the different threads of our humanity, suddenly realizing that Katie’s thread is the same color as ours, or Dustin’s thread happened to intersect his life when he was eighteen – the same age we were when we were struggling with dad issues and peer pressure and general misdirection. 

We read about these characters’ lives, and it reminds us of our own humanity. Our own frailty. We connect to the characters. We connect to the writer. As writers we connect to the characters and we connect to the readers. Connection. Interdependence. It’s comforting. Especially for those of us who can’t seem to connect face to face. 

I can’t remember when it was exactly that I began hiding in books. I think it was around the same time I began hiding in my closet, under piles of hand-me-downs, terrified of the dark and yet more terrified of the unspeakable horrors that could happen even in the daylight. It’s hard being afraid of the dark. It’s even harder being afraid of the light.

The beauty of it all was that at seven years old, I didn’t even know I was dissociating. When your spirit fractures within you it’s designed to happen for your ultimate protection. Having some great, defining, “aha moment” would defeat that purpose I suppose. And so, blissfully unaware of my dysfunction, I went merrily on my way for a couple of decades – lost to myself, but found by this other identity. Heck maybe Freud wasn’t so far off the mark. Id, Ego, Super-Ego. Maybe we all just bounce between them and it’s perfectly normal. Or maybe some people get stuck in one spot until they realize they’re one-dimensional, and instead of being comforting, the thought becomes unbearably nauseating.

My parents had four kids. Two of them moved across the country. For twenty years or so they stayed put, but then one day they decided to move over to the other side to be near the two they hadn’t spent much time with. Maybe it’s that way with our psyche. Eventually we realize that we’ve been neglecting this whole part of ourselves that we used to know a long time ago. 

It doesn’t matter now. It is what it is. But some things are just ironic. Like the fact that I grew up to be a writer.

If you’re reading this right now and thinking “man – what a downer. I wish she’d just get over herself” then I suggest you put this book down. It will only frustrate you in the end. But remember, the thing that drives you crazy about another person is in you somehow, otherwise it wouldn’t push your buttons. At some point you’re going to need to find out why that button is there. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But some day you’re going to pick this book back up, because then you’ll be ready. Then you’ll be brave enough. It’s ok – I’ve been there myself. Take your time. That’s the beauty of the written word. It waits patiently until you’re ready to hear it.

I’m going to start pushing buttons now, but first I’m going to tell you a story. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you...

Truly is a character in my head, but she's also in my heart. As I read the posts, the comments, and the blogs of this wonderful community of writers, I wonder about our own stories, and Truly is the result of all this wondering. Why do we really write? There are dozens of reasons on the surface, but few at the core. And when you get right down to it, those few are really all tied to one another.

Connection. Truly. That's what it's all about.

So what's your story? Why do you really write? If the inner writer in you could tell his or her story with boldness and candor, what would they say? I encourage you to access that person. Listen to them. Write a few paragraphs in that voice and see what comes out. It might be the real you or it might not. It might be a character with a strange but memorable name. Try it anyway. You might surprise yourself. If you want, you can leave a couple of paragraphs in the comments section. C'mon...what have you got to lose? Dignity is over-rated and true honesty is rare. Let's break that cycle. Let's write real...

Madison Richards is trying very hard to listen to the new characters populating her brain these days. She writes, paints, and blogs in between water breaks. She posts here at The Master's Artist every other Tuesday.

Comments

[jen]

I like Truly. She sounds like a friend. That is as honest as I can get.

[BJ Hamrick]

Thanks for encouraging us to write Real, Madison.

[Mary DeMuth]

You're such a breathtaking, honest writer, Madison. And I love Truly. I think her voice could carry a book. Let her write it.

[Jourdan Meyers]

You're so good at letting the characters speak for themselves..a quality in you that I admire. Truly.

:)

XOXO
jojo

[Nadine]

Mary looked longingly through the window in her room. She wanted to join the games of the children outside. Instead, she had just watch. She can't run or jump or laugh they way others can. In fact in her chair all she could do is see the world with her eyes. Her vocal chords won't allow her to speak. Her legs won't allow her to walk. Her hands won't allow her to touch, but her eyes...her eyes allows her to see. To see the beauty of God's creation. The simplicity of a flower.

Okay, Maddie. I tried my best to write a little something for ya. Just a taste.

I'm so glad to see creativity flow from you in a variety of ways, but especially in your writing. I had a feeling that when you moved this would happen. I'm glad to see it come to pass. Enjoy. Write. Create. Listen to the voices in your heart.

[John Stacy Worth]

Madison,

Have I said that you're a great writer? If not, then here:

Madison is a great writer.

I dig Truly. Write on, sister.