Writers Writing, Without the Chaos

Respelling writing for writers through community, creations, and experiences.

The days of my service were in a small, discrete town up north, in my twenties. I was far more introverted then, spoke little, and was notorious for keeping to myself in the coldest way. I didn’t particularly enjoy the company of many people, and it showed. There wasn’t much food, little comfort, and not a lot in common, but we shared the arts, especially stories. Even when languages dispersed, the stories flowed, and I wrote down everything.

I would write so much, perched with my upper-lens glasses on the bridge of my nose, my sling bag at my waist, pen in hand, and the off-white paper the villagers had given me. They had even given me a funny name for it, something that made them laugh, and me too.

The day I left, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. I would give anything to be in that place again, to be among that “many people” in their company, sharing stories, laughter, and the quiet weight of human connection. That is what writing can do to you, it takes you places, and leaves a part of you there forever.

 

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