By Wendy A. Jones
I was going through the information on an old flash drive the other day, and I came across a few pieces in a writing folder. They were written just before and for several months after a traumatic experience in my life.
They were very difficult to read.
Not because they were written with excess adverbs or point of view problems or any other type of writing construction issues. It was because they were so honest.
They were honest enough that I could see my own soul at the time I wrote them, stripped bare of any pretense or subterfuge or agenda. Throbbing with pain and bleeding out an open heart wound.
Yet, while I could still feel the emotions that prompted the writings in the first place, I could now look at them through the prism of time, experience, and healing.
I had compassion on that wounded soul. But I am her no longer.
They are moving and heart-breaking and some of the finest pieces I've ever written, yet I will never share them. They show too much; they are too honest. They make me vulnerable.
Perhaps that's why I like writing fiction: I'm able to use the characters as a buffer, so I can still be honest without exposing my own quivering flesh.
As the sun sets on this year, I've been thinking back on changes I see in myself. I've also been looking forward to the person I want to become. Part of that involves writing truth in a way that resonates.
Wishing you all a joy-filled Christmas and a hopeful New Year.