**I feel like I should warn you. If you are not caught up on This Is Us, please don’t read this. I didn’t talk about what happens, but I allude to the something and please for the love of Story and Characters and because you care about yourself, just skip it. Or, skip to the third paragraph and you’ll be good. Thank you and you’re welcome.**
I just finished watching Episode 9 of This Is Us (season 2). And it was brilliant. Gut-wrenching. But brilliant. It had me crying within the first five minutes and full-on sobbing during Rebecca’s little speech (pep talk?) to 17 year old Kate. Because it paralleled so perfectly what Teenage Kate would need to hear 20ish years later. Which of course the writers did on purpose because they’re brilliant. (which I’ve now used three times in 152 words. but it’s true so… *shrug emojii*.)
Like a fraud. I don’t write everyday. I have nothing published out there in the writing world. I have many unfinished stories. It’s like I have nothing to back this claim up.
I’m a fraud.
Like I’m declaring a piece of my soul to the world, declaring the innermost part of who I am.
An announcement of how important and precious and special words are to me.
That I can truly see how much good I could bring about with my words.
Isn’t that the whole point though?
As mentioned above, I don’t write every day and I have too many unfinished story ideas, but I am always thinking about writing and words and story ideas. I participating in Story every day–my own real life story, my clients and coworkers’ stories, Naruto and This Is Us, Bible studies and Devo Nights, reading.
Writing and Story is all around me.
Here’s the declaration.
Now it’s time to write and turn the dream into reality.
I took a lot of pictures today. I took some of the walk Anthony and I took around Meadow Vista. I took some of the berry bushes along the side of the road and the sunlight. I screenshot the homepage of the YouTube channel I subscribed to earlier today. I took a selfie of us on our walk. I took a picture of Ant working on homework.
But my camera roll does not accurately represent our day.
Last Wednesday I posted this photo on Instagram and Facebook:
With these words typed below it:
This semester Wednesday nights look like this. Anthony works after Program so we meet at the Senior Center early before Bible Study. I bring him food and usually coffee (this week it was orange juice) and we talk about our days. Some days it wears on me getting home and turning back around right after, driving two separate cars, but some days (like tonight) I remember to laugh and smile (and document) and remember it’s just the season we’re in right now. It’s always so good to see him after 11 1/2 hours.
And then the next morning, when I went on Facebook for the first time, I saw this comment:
I have been thinking a lot lately of writing short stories and putting them Out There — either on this blog or, more recently, Wattpad.
In Chapter 6 of DIY MFA, Gabriela Pereira writes about ideas and how do you know if this idea is The One. For book-length projects she suggests writing short stories to give yourself the chance to hang out with your characters in the world they live in.
Music is powerful. You can hear songs that were so important and meaningful to you from childhood and high school again in your 20s and know 99.9% of the music and lyrics and, at the same time, be transported back to a memory that you associate with those lyrics and tune.
At my parents’ house a couple Saturdays ago, I visited my old room to wake Anthony up from his nap and then I got lost in my shelves, particularly the very bottom one where I lined up mine and my sister’s CDs from long ago. Skillet, Hawk Nelson, Yellowcard, the numerous acoustic mix CDs, Superchick, Eli Young Band, All Time Low, and Thousand Foot Krutch were greeted with smiles similar to the ones I give books I’ve read over and over again.
This is the reason why I won’t delete the songs off of my first-ever iPod because it’s like a time capsule of high school. The songs I chose to buy and the playlists I made were a reflection of who I was at 15.