This post is speaking to the skilled writer.

"M" took away my writing skills, too. It does not have my "voice."

When I first began to write my story, I scribbled those horrid words down with a black magic marker. They were poisonous, black slime filled with shame, sadness and anger. I tried to write it powerful enough so that people would feel my pain. Walk in my shoes. Wear my skin. But the words were ugly and I hated them. I took them outside and lit a match to them. Poof.

The next time I tried to write my story, I sat down at the typewriter and pounded the keys. Hard. Tippy-type, tippy-type, pound-pound-pound. Fingers flying, words flowing, type-type-type. It was well-crafted. Polished. But in the end, those horrid words were still there. Still ugly. Still poisonous.

It was only after I told my story, actually spoke those difficult words over and over and over again, that I was able to finally write it. I wretched on those words as they poured from my lips, fell from my eyes, dripped from my nose.

But only from the telling was my head able to connect to my heart, allowing me to write my story with all the depth and emotion it deserved. That emotion ultimately became my voice.

Your story will be written in time, Jan.

Your voice will be heard when it's ready.

You're just beginning to clear your throat.