Read to Write
Photo- Avi via Flikr
My favorite early childhood memory was my four-year-old self sitting on the white sectional in our living room, facing the spreading plum tree in the backyard, my legs stuck out in front of me, holding “Charlotte’s Web” on my lap while reading it aloud to my mother. Though I’d yet to acquire the plastic patch that came when my mom learned I had “lazy eye” which, combined with farsightedness meant I was in danger of losing the sight in my right eye without exercises and forcing the eye to do its fair share of the work, I’d learned to read at a level far beyond my years. It was a short leap from stories I read to the ones I’d write.
Other than life itself, the greatest gift my mother gave me was a love of literature. Her patience was unparalleled when it came to teaching me to read, or spending time at Lewis’s Books adding another gem to my collection. In fact, she and the couple who, at the time, seemed as old as the hills to me were the most influential people in my young life. Memories of my dad in my earliest memories faded to obscurity in comparison.
It wasn’t long before I was penning stories for myself, or simply making them up in my head. My dreams provided stories of witches, supernatural creatures, and a braver, stronger me to fuel an already overactive imagination, and one I often escaped to when the rest of the world was too harsh for my gentle soul to bear. I was one of those kids whose mothers chase them outside to play when I’d much rather have lost myself between the pages of “Mary Poppins” or “Dr. Doolittle”, or the tales of Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Best Friends Found in Books
I suppose much of the abuse I suffered from the neighborhood kids was due to what, today 
would be referred to as nerdiness. My response to their aggression was never self-defense, but always retreat, often into a book. It wasn’t long before I learned to write out my feelings as well, though like those feelings, the pages could be stuffed in a drawer where no one else could see them, or ridicule me for my lack of control.
By the time I reached 4th grade, I had a social life only because my mom pushed me out of the house, or had me join a Girl Scout Troop. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy being a Girl Scout; getting to make situpons, sell cookies, and go on campouts. I simply preferred the company of books, and by then, my cat Snowy who often curled up beside me while I read.
According to my long-time friend Candy, by the time I’d waded through too many Dick and Jane books in my first 3 years of elementary school, I’d also lost patience with what the school system considered age-appropriate reading material . At one point, I stood up in my 4th-grade class, declaring:
“This book is stupid! I’m going to be a writer when I grow up!”
Writing Through Trials and Tribulations
I wrote on and off throughout high school and college, and pounded out reams of brain dumps once I got my first computer. Though memory is foggy, I suspect there were more in the pages of long-destroyed spiral notebooks, still my book of choice for writing longhand and journaling.
Much of what I wrote was the angst-filled drek of a lonely, introverted teenager. But it was words on a page, no matter how awful, that fueled my soul, and my need to self-express in a world where I’d been taught to keep my feelings locked deep inside.
Without realizing it, I would write to work through problems, get over the roughest spots in my life, and most of all, ease the loneliness I locked down so ruthlessly, it squealed like a girl with her pigtails pulled too tight. Until I wrote a story for my daughters when they were 5, I put nothing down on paper or computer that would ever see the light of day. I wrote for me, myself, and I, but no one else.
The Ultimate Goal is to Write
I was 54-years-old before I had the courage, and a reason to open up the Pandora’s box filled 
with all my withheld feelings and begin sharing them with the world. At first, it came out in a trickle; sharing a few relatively minor cracks in my walls. As time went on, and I discovered I was anything but alone in experiencing those feelings, I grew bolder, and released bigger pieces, not only in my blogs, but through my fiction.
I took “write what you know” to heart, and put a large chunk of myself into the characters in my novels. In the process, I also found a strength I’d been stifling for most of my life, believing what I’d buried were not only my deep-seated fears, but all my weaknesses too.
Though dreams of publishing those novels, and the memoir that came out of my early return to writing are still somewhere in the future, writing has taught me while there may be a time and a place to hide my feelings from parts of the world, there’s as much of a time and place to open them up and share with people who, like me, need to know their struggles are neither in vain, nor alone.
Getting Comfortable Being Vulnerable
The lessons I’m learning by writing and sharing have sent my journey down a healthier, more joyful path. The road I tread today bears little resemblance to the harsh, lonely world filled with rejection of my own making, where a rough day at work could send me home to scream into my pillow so as not to frighten or worry my daughters.
Though I’ll still try to stifle my tears when life knocks me sideways, and even withdraw for a day or two, I no longer spiral down into a pit of depression where feelings swirl around me, begging for escape.
Though I’m still not entirely comfortable sharing my sorrows and worries with others aloud, there are a few with whom I no longer feel like a burden, or as if I need to compare my troubles to theirs and find mine to be minuscule and unworthy in comparison. I’m learning by sharing my own sorrows and worries, I do for others what they’ve done for me; I allow them to help and understand, and take a step or two away from their own burdens.
Writing may allow me to express feelings first, but it’s no longer the end of the line, or an excuse to bottle them up rather than allowing other humans to empathize, console, and support me through reality at its harshest. Only by sharing my feelings in many ways can I find the lessons in the pain, the triumph in the loss, and the companionship and strength in being my truest, most honest, vulnerable self. More importantly, I give others a safe space to do the same.
Continuing the Journey
I’ll continue to weave stories with an element of truth because I remember losing myself in relatable stories when the going got rough. That isn’t to say I didn’t often take comfort in the impossible, and the happy-ever-afters too, but there was always an element of my own experiences that drew me to both read, and write what I knew, whether it was for a better understanding, or simply acceptance.
Writing is the door through which I step when I finally allow myself to be open, honest, vulnerable, and Human, and to share my Humanity with others through compassionate exchanges.
About the Author
Sheri Conaway is a Holistic Ghostwriter, and an advocate for cats and mental health. Sheri 
believes in the Laws of Attraction, but only if you are a participant rather than just an observer. Her mission is to Make Vulnerable Beautiful and help entrepreneurs touch the souls of their readers and clients so they can increase their impact and their income.
If you’d like to have her write for you, please visit her Hire Me page for more information. You can also find her on Facebook Sheri Levenstein-Conaway Author.
Be sure to watch this space for news of the upcoming releases of ” Rebuilding After Suicide” and “Sasha’s Journey”.
