"we are writers, my love. we don't cry, we bleed on paper." - a. y.

It's hard for me to explain to people why I write, why it means so much to me, and why I keep doing it even when it doesn't seem like anyone is reading or even cares. Then again, I still have yet to explain to others—and myself—how and why it helps me despite the hurt.

I have a list of things I don't talk about. It would likely fill pages if I ever wrote down every single thing and would range from silly things like why I don't like country music to the serious things like the monsters I constantly fight in my own head. Yet, those are things that while I'll never really talk about, they still find a way into what I write and everything I create.

For the longest time, I actively avoided and cut any hint of them from what I was working on, and if it took too much out of the piece, I buried it. In my head, that was the easiest solution because if no one knew—if I ignored them long enough—maybe they wouldn't exist. Then I started to realize the problem with that tactic.

Everything was fake. My characters, stories, and even I felt fake. It was like trying to read some perfect cookie cutter version of what I expected things to be. Just even thinking about it makes me nauseated from the amount of metaphorical bleach I was drenching it all in. Because that's what I was doing—bleaching out the dark spots and blotting the ugliness until it was a chemically manufactured perfection.

Then, a couple of years ago, I came to terms with those blemishes—those nasty little bumps and ridges that I hated about myself mentally, physically, and emotionally. It was a process of learning to understand that it all made up who I was as a person—and by extension a writer. I cleaned up and cared for what I could and took the rest for what it has to be—not something I forced myself to love, but something to simple accept, forgive, and move on.

I got back into writing. Not the kind that was smoothed and airbrushed to perfection, but the rough edged kind that gave me paper cuts, that was smudged from rushed thoughts, and that sometimes left me feeling tired and raw. It brought back the heart that everything else lacked.

For me, writing isn't like bleeding. It's like plopping down the tangled mess that lives in my heads and untying a few knots. My characters went through struggles—sometimes like mine and most times not—but as they figured it out, I did too. They weren't just ink and paper or letters on a screen. To me, they had blood and heart. It didn't matter if anyone else saw it or not, because I knew it was there.

So yeah, I think that to write—really, truly write—you have to bleed a little. Be crazy. Be messy and brash. Be honest. Be willing to cry and fray at the edges. Be vulnerable.

I want to try an exercise with you. Go read something by your favorite author and notice the quirks that are unique to them. In my experience, the best stories come from a deep—often dark—place that no one wants to talk about, but we all want to hear from. It helps us connect in confusing, comforting ways that remind us-- we're not alone.

We're never alone.

We never have been.

We just keep trying to clean ourselves up and build ourselves armor to hide behind. Trust me, I'm guilty of doing this daily, but the best stories are the ones that leave us vulnerable.

You've just gotta strip down the armor for a second, bleed a little, and remember to do it for you instead of seeking to please anyone and everyone.

So, my dear friend, remind yourself of this–because it's not something that comes naturally–be vulnerable, honest, and gentle with yourself. Write what you need, what makes you happy, what makes you sad, or what makes you heal. I can promise you, someone out there will need to hear it, even if that person is only you.