Writing yourself in a book

Now both Conrad and I are published writers. Even if you don’t write yourself in a story, even if you don’t publish an autobiography, writing is vulnerable. 

For some reason blogging doesn’t feel so dramatically final. Maybe it’s the false impression that I can take it back, shutting down the blog. I am fully aware that once you release things online you will never fully take them back. Like a secret shared to one person. A word said in confidence. If it leaves your lips or the proverbial tips of your fingers, it is out of your hands. 

Conrad has been talking about his science fiction book with courage and clarity. I haven’t gotten tired to hear him share the synopsis. It is always slightly more revealing, or he focuses on a different aspect of the book, depending on the audience. I am personally excited about the story and the characters. I think Conrad is brilliant, and more creative than he gives himself credit. It is a privilege to witness his becoming having a front row seat, or maybe even a small part in his development as a writer.

He sold all his books. The first edition. And all the ones he brought with him at the conference in Croatia. 

I had with me four books of poetry. I gave three of them as gifts. I brought one back home. I said nothing about it for the first part of the event. On the second to last night at the conference we had art reflection and poetry. And I read a poem from it. 

I wrote all those, over the last couple of years. They are vulnerable and contextual. I don’t mind judgment but I cringe at misunderstanding. I guess poetry writing doesn’t really go hand in hand with the fear of misunderstanding. 

Yet here I am, with a published book of poetry. A gift to my daughters. A remembrance stone. An altar of vulnerability. An encouragement to other parents who travel through the valley of doubt, of painful growth, of humility, discovering the heart of God as I fully embrace my role as mom.