As much as I enjoyed writing 50,000 words during the last two Novembers, I almost considered not writing this year, but I knew that wasn't a real option. Writing is the only option because writing gives me life. NaNoWriMo in all of its crazy, busy stress gives me life. So I'll be writing all of next month, aiming for 1,667 words per day, and I am looking forward to the adventure!
In September, I had a brilliant novel idea. (I have no problem calling my own ideas brilliant.) I was so excited about it. It came to my mind, and I knew it would be great to write 50,000 words about that idea. I knew I wouldn't forget it.
The next day, it was gone.
But that's okay. Because in mid-September, I saw something -- someone -- that I couldn't shake.
Three weeks after seeing that someone, I finally grabbed my journal and wrote a rough, first draft only poem just to get it out of me.
That someone pierced my heart, and I still can't shake him. He is going to be my basis for the novel this November.
I don't know him. We didn't even talk. But I caught a glimpse of his brokenness in the fifteen seconds it took me to drive past him, and strangely, that was enough.
I know that probably doesn't make sense. It doesn't have to. Maybe sharing his story through a rough, unedited, potentially unpoetic poem will help. Maybe sharing his story and what could be in a novel will help. We'll find out. I'll keep you updated on the novel journey. Until then, you're invited into that poem, that sacred, broken moment, with me.
To the Boy Who Is Hurting
I see you.
Or rather, I saw you.
Three weeks ago.
Walking down the sidewalk.
Carefully treading, procrastinating arrival.
You in your crimson polo perfectly tucked into your khaki pants.
You weighed down by your shadow of a backpack.
You who may have flown away otherwise.
You who wanted to fly away.
I saw you.
You with your head hung low.
You trying not to be seen.
You trying not to take up too much space.
I saw you. You pale face with traces of pre-pubescent acne. Your yellow hair the proper
length for a proper boy. Curls barely forming.
I saw you.
I saw your face even though your gaze was locked into the sidewalk five feet before you.
I saw your dread.
Your despair.
Your hopelessness.
I saw you seeping out of that proper boy.
I still see you. Not on the sidewalk.
No.
In my mind.
I wanted to say something.
Pull my car over.
Tell you you are worth life.
Tell you there is hope.
But how can that work?
I didn't want to scare you.
I didn't want to make you more insecure about your hurt.
Your existence.
You were trying not to be seen.
But I saw you.
Will someone who knows you see you too?
Will someone who knows you tell you you are worth life?
Tell you there is hope?
A teacher?
A parent?
A classmate?
A friend?
Do you have a friend?
Do you have a present parent?
Do you have anyone?
Who else will see you?
Because I saw you.
You will never know.
But I saw you.
And, you, boy who is so clearly hurting, yes, you.
You are etched into my heart.
Though I will not see you on the sidewalk again, I will keep seeing you.
I saw you.
Now, as I keep seeing him, as I keep thinking about him, I'm going to continue writing about him. I'm going to write to give me, him (even though he'll never know it), and others hope. Because we all need hope. And I need to write.
Care to join me in this NaNoWriMo 2015 adventure? Check out the FAQs and join here.
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