“Dear Diary:” When I was young, I had one of those lock-and-key diaries. Writing in it was like writing a letter to a trusted confidant. Even now, I hold an image of an affectionate reader in my mind when I write. That reader feels like a friend, and writing has always been my friend as well. I remember being enamored making marks on paper before I knew how to make letters. Personal experience has taught me that people who do this writing thing need it so desperately that stopping might mean extinction. “I write, therefore I am” may apply here.

I grew up in total abusive chaos, and I knew that as long as I expressed myself on paper, I was still viable. Conveying my thoughts, emotions, observations and personal truths by writing gave me—and still gives me—a friend to talk to and visual proof of existence—of my identity. Being an author and practicing the art of writing reinforce that identity—and the friendship. I can meet this special friend anywhere—in my office, on a park bench, in a coffee house, or while traveling. She is available any time, and always hears and clarifies my thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Writing is an addictive relationship—in the sense that I am driven to do it. However, unlike addiction, writing tends to lead me toward my true self and not away from my true self. It is one of the ways through which emotions can be revealed to me while being expressed by me. More than any other genre, poetry, an honest, raw discovery and sharing of self, does this best. However, all of my writing efforts contribute to self-awareness, Let’s face it, writing has made me my own best friend.

Eventually, I was able to leave the privacy of my diary and take the next step: publishing. (My first publication was when I was twelve.) I’m striving to be known through authorship—I don’t mean a best-selling, famous author. (In reality, I’m afraid of losing my privacy—a bit of a conundrum!) I want to be accepted and valued for what has made me who I am. I wrote this poem years ago in an effort to find the core child in me when I needed this best friend.

Finding Me Writing

I discover a pinpointed place
within the internal mist,
where lost rays turn
left and right
into formless gray matter,
like the first morning light
on a cloud-crowded day.

Through hovering oppressive air
that swallows precious time,
I strain to find me,
a smiling child,
pen in hand,
bent over rustic table,
bound only by an inkwell.

Stroking my eyes,
I brush away the haze.
Materialized beneath my feet,
the path leads straight,
like a trustworthy friend.
And, while she writes,
I make my way to her side.

Laurel Jean Becker
Previously Published:
Once Upon a Time, Vol. 12 #4