This weekend I read one of my essays aloud in public, for the first time, at a writers’ conference. Partway through, as I looked up at the crowd of people in the room, I saw them fighting back tears. I had to glance away quickly so I didn’t cry, too. I darted my eyes back to the pages of paper I held in my shaky hands, inhaled a slow breath, and kept reading.
Some people think tears are a negative thing. I don’t. I saw this as a sign that the listeners were connecting with me, and connecting to my story about the letters my late grandmother wrote to me for many decades of her life. Her letters taught me how powerfully words create connection. Her letters made me laugh out loud, long before LOL was a word. Her letters reminded me that someone loved me. Replying to Grandma—telling her my stories—could be considered one of my early forays into this career as a writer and storyteller.
The essay I read won the Write to Publish 2019 Nonfiction Writing Contest from Ooligan Press. Part of the prize was the opportunity to read aloud at their conference for emerging writers. I will be forever grateful to this organization for loving my words, and for allowing me to share them with others. In some ways, this feels like keeping my grandmother’s spirit alive.
Just before the reading, I thought about how much I would have liked for Grandma to hear this piece. It could have been a way for me to repay her for the kindness she showed to me, by writing to me and supporting me through all the ups and downs of my young adult life.
But then it occurred to me: I think she knows. If her spirit is out there somewhere, she must have been watching over that reading. Maybe she gave me the fortitude to get up there in front of complete strangers, to share a very personal story, to keep the tears at bay. She strengthened me so powerfully throughout her life, writing words of support and love on flowery stationery, which she folded gently into matching paper envelopes and mailed with real stamps. I no longer receive those physical letters, but it’s easy to believe she is still sending me strength. Or maybe it’s a gift she gave me that actually stuck. Maybe all those words she wrote are still a part of me, building me up and making me strong for the rest of my days.
My essay will be published soon in Tahoma Literary Review magazine. I will let you know when that happens, and I’ll share the story publicly at that time. Just be warned: you might cry when you read it.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing.
