On the Saving Grace of Writing

     How many articles and interviews do we read about comedians or actors known for their comedic genius, in which the journalist expresses surprise at the celebrities' real-life personality? How many times are we told that So-and-So is actually quite shy and retiring, nothing like the So-and-So we see on the stage or the screen? The journalist usually goes on to say that the celebrity was painfully shy as a child, but found humor to be a useful sort of mask behind which to hide his shyness. He became the "class clown" in high school and college, and that image helped forge a career, got him out into the world in a way he otherwise might not have done. Yet he remains, at the core, shy. He may very likely suffer from social anxiety disorder.

     Speaking as one who has long suffered from S. A. D., I have found writing to be my saving grace; not a "mask," but a means through which I can reveal who I really am, whether it be on this blog, in my journal, in my poetry, or in letters and even on Facebook. Leticia in person may appear to be quite different. She may not have much to say for herself, may be a poor conversationalist, may even retire into a defeated silence. But that's not really Leticia. Only her family and very closest friends can know the real Leticia in person.

     In Elizabeth Taylor's short story "The Letter Writers," a man and woman who have for years known each other only through correspondence finally meet at the woman's house. She is pathetically wracked with worry, knowing how much he enjoys her beautifully written, lively letters, that he might find the writer to be quite ordinary and dull, not at all what he imagined. Indeed, when he arrives at her door, her cat has just upset the lobster she intended to serve for lunch; she is unkempt, harried, and completely distraught. For the rest of the afternoon, she never recovers herself from that initial meeting. Moreover, the neighbor whom she had so colorfully portrayed in her letters shows up, and proves to be nothing more than a tiresome busybody. The visit is, in short, a disaster for both correspondents. But do they stop writing each other? No. Each has grown too fond of the other that leaps so vividly off the page; it is a peculiar kind of friendship, to be sure, and some readers might conclude it isn't a friendship at all, only delusion. I see it as a true friendship, because through writing, without the constrictions and tensions that a conventional, flesh-and-blood friendship can sometimes impose, they are free to be truly themselves.

     I know what it's like to be able to relax through the written word. I've poured out more of myself on the page than I have to any human being. I am grateful to be able to write.