Painting with Words

What did I just read? I don’t think that makes much sense.

What am I attempting to say?

Often those are the questions I ask after reading a draft of one of my columns. In my head it makes sense, but reading it, that’s an entirely different story.

When attempting to express an idea, an emotion, a scene I see the thought clearly, the scenario in context, but the reader is left without the clarity or the understanding of what I’m writing about.

Sigh. That is the challenge of every writer: how to paint a picture in words. What story do I want to tell, and how to add depth, meaning, colors to the blank page so readers are jolted and caught in the emotions I feel.

And, what am I actually feeling? Perhaps that is why I write: to uncover the hidden messages eluding my conscious mind. Why am I fearful? What do I want to know? What mystery is lurking just below the surface I’m intent on unearthing? And does the reader even care?

I decided years ago, if I’m confused, joyful, apprehensive, sad, baffled about something, others may be also. If I write about those feelings, others may relate, may understand, may have walked along that path before me, and will understand what I am feeling.

When I wrote about my depression and how devastating it was for me, the admission opened a floodgate from others. People were embarrassed to admit the darkness surrounding them, the hopelessness they felt, the desire to die, and the fear of admitting they felt trapped.

Their responses created a link between us. I suddenly felt relief and connected. I didn’t have to hide those fears, and I was no longer alone. I was not the only one sitting in a black hole afraid to move but desperately wanting to end my desperation. Not understanding, and not capable of finding light in this dark place.

Just the admission freed a part of me allowing me to find solutions to my desperation. The chains of blackness began to loosen, and I found help and a community. All because I allowed myself to acknowledge what I perceived as a weakness, a flaw, an embarrassing dent in my persona was shared and kept secret by others.

So, when I ask myself, what did I just read? Does that make sense? What am I attempting to say? I stop and confess, I haven’t a clue if the reader understands or even if I do. But I will no doubt hear from someone with “You missed your mark.” or “I feel that way too.”