When I was young, I didn’t know what to say. I had feelings I couldn’t express, thoughts that seemed unformed.
When I needed to connect, I retreated into books. Spent entire afternoons on the couch. Transfixed by Scarlett’s vanity. Heartbroken when Rhett walked out. Pulled into a world where words brought everything to life.
Eventually, I learned to speak more confidently. I talked my mom’s ear off on car trips. Sure that I knew things of which she had never heard. She encouraged me, even when she might have preferred some peaceful silence.
In high school, I began to write. Sometimes the teacher would read my essays aloud and classmates would look at me differently. How does she do that?
Writing is enchantment. Writing is magic. And I was hooked.
As a young adult I sent a few stories to magazines. Sometimes writing through the night. Eventually a form letter would come back. Or nothing. It wasn’t what they were looking for.
In journals I explained myself to myself. Let it all out. And I talked to those closest to me. But I longed for more expression. More connection.
Then the internet arrived, and I could suddenly write a long letter to a friend, and she would have it instantly. But who had time to answer letters in such a busy world? Most preferred the telephone.
Then blogging came along. I didn’t understand it. Wasn’t it for sharing baby photos and family vacations? Didn’t sound right for me.
Finally, on a long weekend, I gave it a try. I wrote a short post about my Baha’i Faith and my troubling introversion, responding to a WordPress daily writing prompt.
In an instant, it was online for others to see. I felt hopeful. I received a few “likes” and comments and encouragement to write more. I saw what others were writing about and wanted to follow them.
That day, the world became connected for me in a new way. And I am hooked.