Attachments & Connections

This past Monday, Valentine's Day, I wrote what I guess you'd call a blog post of sorts. It was on my Facebook profile and it was called "Attachments." It was silly really. At least to me. I was waxing poetic and being sentimental about a cell phone I'd had for at least 4 years and was now retiring because my partner got us the new Verizon iPhone.

I truly didn't expect much on the piece. In fact, I didn't think I'd get any replies at all. Ironically enough, I did. And I was surprised by what people shared. There were some very honest comments as well as a beautifully intimate, but sad, experience shared by a FB friend. I guess I touched something inside the people that read the piece.

It reminded me of why I wanted to be a writer in the first place.

We're all different. We may have many things that set us apart from one another -- male, female, American, English, straight, gay, black, white, not to mention personal experiences -- yet we share so many things in common! We are connected by our basic needs, desires and emotions. We all want a nice place to live, someone to love who will love us back, good health and the occasional vacation where we can escape from the routine of life. A dash of good sex and some romance thrown in couldn't hurt, either!

To me, nothing brings these connections to the forefront the way words do. I don't believe what the naysayers preach. "Words have no meaning! They have no power! It's all in the intent!"

To that, I say bullshit.

Words do indeed have power. They are magic. As writers, we know full well how each phrase, with the properly connected words, can breathe life into a scene and fill a reader with anger, fear, despair, humor, desire, hope. Each story helps readers connect -- either through a fantasy, or a memoir -- on a subconscious level, so they don't feel alone. So they can experience the connectivity of life and know we have purpose and meaning.

After a lifetime of wanting to be a writer I was ready to throw in the towel and give up my one unfulfilled desire. That is, until about two years ago when I was laid off from my regular "bill-paying" job. I've done a lot of soul searching since then and realized I was always a writer. I just wasn't published; at least, not with anything to my name that truly mattered to anyone.

Then a funny thing happened. Loose Id accepted my first ever m/m romance for publication. "Casa Rodrigo" is a difficult read for many due to the the topic -- which is slavery -- but as hard as it might be for some to read, it was just as difficult to write. But, once again, I think it's because in some way we're connected to the tragic true story of human bondage no matter the skin color at the other end of the chains; and despite the fact that "Casa Rodrigo" is a work of fiction.

When "Lauderdale Hearts" was released last month, I got some very interesting comments in the few reviews it's had thus far. Here again, the reviewers were able to connect with a character or event in the story and experience a connection to their own life.

In real life, I wrote something called "My ABCs" under a different pen name. I gave it to several people to read it and I encountered some very violent reactions. But one, whom I'll call Sally, visited me at work the very next day and hugged me. Though it wasn't quite a hug. It was more like she was holding on to me for dear life.

Through her tears, though I didn't understand why she was crying, she said, "Thank you. It's like you saw into my heart." I had no idea what she meant until many months later, when she finally resurfaced after many months of intense psychotherapy. Turns out Sally had been sexually and verbally abused as a child. She'd tapped into and connected with the little boy I wrote about, and the events he experienced in his life.

The situation with Sally was, to put it mildly, humbling. Just as it was to read about the gentleman on FB tell me about the pictures he took on his cell phone, of his dying partner, and how he still keeps it because of the emotional attachment and connection it gave him to his since deceased love.

So, fellow writers: we may not be Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley or Hermoine Granger; we may not live in the fantastical Shire with Bilbo and Frodo; we may not even be able to raise our hands and cause things to levitate or call them to us like the supposed mutants in X-Men. But we have our own version of magic wands we can swish and flick. We can miraculously make something happen, appear or disappear. We have the power to weave together stories that connect us. We can write about things that make us relate to someone, or something, and make us experience something great.

To me, that's pretty magical. And humbling.