We write and we write and try to make strangers (or friends) laugh or cry with ink on a page or pixels on a screen. Sometimes it doesn’t work, and the words are just shapes where they should be signposts and symbols. So we tear up the page or we press delete and there you are, a chance to start again.
If only life could be rewritten so easily.
Too often, it’s not just the words on the page that won’t come out right. Too often, in the real world they fill your mouth with the taste of burnt paper, like the cards and letters you will never cease wanting to send.
It’s easy to come up with some smart remark, some sharp-edged slice of wit and, yes, they make the point, but I’ve used those words often enough to learn that they’re tools for breaking, not mending. I’m trying to leave those tools behind me, a glint in the rear-view mirror, choking on my dust.
Maybe those old pages can’t be written anew, but perhaps, with care, the plot can still be shaped. Perhaps the right words can remind someone that they’re more than a supporting character in the story, remind them that they are a living, breathing example of everything inspiring about being human, and perhaps most importantly, remind them that you owe them an eternal debt for being part of your story, and allowing you to be part of theirs.
Treasure the connection, and fight for it. Be glad you let them in, and keep them there.