When Writing is Passage. . . and Prayer
The bravest choice a writer makes is to tell the truth—especially when it means telling the truth about herself. I’ve watched new student writers hold back, protecting their protagonists (and, let’s be honest, themselves), leaving only a few peripheral characters—like ex-husbands or old boyfriends—to be sacrificed.
The details of the human condition are often sanitized or gagged. We can’t connect with her story, because the wounded soul inside is dressed up in stretch-leggings and big earrings, like Malibu Barbie on her best day.
But the confessional writer? She comes to the page like a wailing wall. She kneels, and the story spills—messy, improper, and real. It’s not a protest. It’s not graffiti. It’s an offering: fragments of what she overlooked, or what others missed completely. She risks exposure, yes—but she remembers what it was like to live in hiding. And that was worse.
She can’t turn back now. This is how life has spun out of her: part vexing passage, part prayer.
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