Mikayla Connolly

A Letter To The Struggling Writer Within Me

I am unable to retrieve my old projects, and that longing part inside of me will be forever saddened. But I am okay. If I am a true writer, I will revive those old pieces, breathe new ideas and dreams into them. Writing like this…it feels good. Good to be back. I’m not sure exactly what this is, and what the reasoning behind this is. I think I just want to start new. I want to write a letter to myself, if you will. I want to have a reminder for myself, on those days where I am struggling to string a handful of words together and glancing back to my phone, that I am a good writer. I am a great writer. And there will be times, more often than not, where I will doubt this. I will scream and cry and struggle to think. I will want nothing more than to crawl under my covers, listen to some John Mayer or sad acoustic song, and wait for the muse to come to me. But that is not how it works, I’m afraid to say. The muse does not take orders. It does not have a routine, a work schedule. And it will rarely bear it’s teeth for you. Lying in bed, avoiding doing what you do best…this is not how you get the muse’s attention. You must show him you are worthy. You must prevail, write. Write although it hurts. Write until it hurts. Write it all, through it all. Because although right now you are struggling, thinking of giving up, you have been here before. And you will be here again. But it is your job, (if you are truly a great writer, that is,) to work. Work. Work. Work. Hard work pays off. You will get there. I promise.

Don’t let me down, okay? You’re going to change the world one day. You are going to inspire that nine-year old girl facing her family’s demise. You are going to convince her that yes, her dad is sick, and yes, her mom is three-thousand miles away. But soon she will find that magic, while seldom found, is all she needs. It is up to you to weave that magic. She will read, and read, and read. Until her eyes burn. (With tears or tiredness, it is up to you to decide.) She will want for everything to just stop for once, and she will want to hide. She will hate herself, blame herself. Bury herself. But she will find that words, like magic, are not just an anchor, but a lifeline. One that is always there, just sometimes she is too ignorant to look around and grab on.

She is going to think, a countless amount of times, why me? Why, of all the people in the fucking world, should I be met with such chaos? She is going to do something great. I want you to convince her, show her that her life is a canvas, and all this chaos is nothing more than a few extra colors to the palette. Show her that it is okay to mix green with blue. Yellow with purple. This is nothing more than a beautiful mess.

She will doubt herself. And she will want to give up. We already have enough of those, she will tell herself. I should focus on a reliable job. Don’t let her choose money over smiles, exchange happiness for depression. Show her that yes, her career choice is fucking hard, but no one got to where they wanted to be without hard work and homelessness. Try to touch on budget, though.

She is going to shut down, pull away from her father. From her family. And she will begin to confuse her father’s wheezing with his laughs. She will convince herself that ignoring is the only surefire way to ward off pain. That maybe if she just pretends he is already gone, it won’t hurt as much when he is. And I know these thoughts still manage to find you today. And I am here to say that is so, so fucking wrong. Show her that faith, above all else, prevails. She will want to have good memories of holding his hand as they cross the street even though it is super embarrassing like oh my god I can’t believe I’m letting him do this, but convince her it is ok. Know yourself that it is okay. Let him be an overbearing, loving parent. Because right now, it is the only one you both have. I can assure you, when he goes, you will want him to know you love him. I think you know your dad well enough to know he does in fact know, but he does not exactly understand why you ignore him. Explaining it does not justify it, either. Love him. And love him hard. Anything else results in agony. You don’t want that for yourself, and you wouldn’t want it for this girl. So change. Show her that change is good.

And show her that it is okay to miss her mother, to so badly want to forgive and forget, even though her family begs otherwise. Tell her that she is entitled to love her mother unconditionally. There will be a time, in the mid-aftermath of the divorce, where she begins to fall into her (dad’s) family’s lap. She will be told of all the horrible things her mother has done, and she will begin to hate her. Her mom will stop calling after a month. Her dad will let her. But I want you to show her that, when these punches of longing bruise her stomach, that she is still a kid. And that influence is hard to ignore when it is constantly around. Tell her it is okay to cry to her dad about it.

And when her dad explodes, in a fit of confusion and just a tinge of jealousy, tell her it is okay. That she is not stupid and dumb for wanting to have a relationship with her mom. Tell her it was the right thing to do. That everything will blow over. Promise her.

And when she finally calls her mom, give her the strength not to puke in those first three rings. She is brave. Don’t let her think otherwise

When she feels lonely, because she has no solid friendships that stand on their own outside of school, tell her to pick up a book. Tell her to better herself, get outside. Tell her she will make new friends eventually. But only if she tries.

And when she hates her mixed blood, because her aunt and grandma won’t shut up about Mexicans being illegal trash, tell her to speak up. Show her that bravery is just as healing as a band-aid and her dad loves her too much to let such negativity run through her veins, staining her ancestors back-breaking work. Tell her that it is okay to ask for them to at least attempt non-racist discussion, at least around her. Her grandma will understand. Her aunt might not. And that is okay. She’ll do something great one day anyway, and prove her aunt wrong.

She is going to waste her days(and money) on someone(s) famous. Tell her it is okay. She is a kid, and she can live. Just try to be better at budgeting.

She is going to hate her size. She is going to try a new diet every week and cry when nothing has changed. She is going to look at herself in the mirror and not recognize the thing staring back. Convince her that size has no correlation whatsoever to talent and success. Convince her that being big is not always a bad thing, and that the big apple is called the big apple for a reason. Convince her that she is still growing. Tell her she is beautiful. 

And when she finally wakes from that dream, calm her down. When her eyes finally open, only to find she is not who she thought she was, tell her it is okay, it is okay, it is okay. She will freak out, probably have a panic attack and cry. She will start questioning who she truly is. It is okay, it is okay, it is okay, as long as she learns to accept. She will begin to view you know who in a different light, and distance herself from them. She will convince herself that the feelings will go away if she just focuses on something, or someone, else. And then she will realize that isn’t how the world works and go back to being their best friend. They will be really confused but happy nonetheless. Tell her to not do this. Tell her to be brave. If she truly values what she has with them, she will venture. She will discover who she is by the end of it. And she will accept the result.

Her life, like any, is going to be filled with smiles and laughter and cries and red faces and chest pain and eye-rolls. It is going to be tough. But she is going to find that faith, above all else, is what she needs to get by. She is going to find she is strong and brave and beautiful and lovely. But not without your words.

Do you understand?

You never had that. You never had a book you could one-hundred-percent relate to. And maybe that is a good thing, because your life is so unique it cannot be pinned down to one story. Maybe not even a handful of stories could sum up your life. I know it’s been…well…you know.

But that is why you are a writer. You write to help people. You write to help yourself.

So write that story. Or stories. Write the next Harry Potter. Length is irrelevant. 

Just write what you needed growing up. Write it for the little girl whose life just changed for not the worst and not the best but somewhere in between. Produce her lifeline. Give her hope. Think of her when you are struggling, and doubting yourself.

That girl is out there. There is probably more than one of her.

They are counting on you.