Have you ever written a letter and never sent it?

Crafted an email and promptly deleted it?

In certain situations, either of those actions is a necessary step in a process: A process to get over, or passed an event that left us without a final resolution. It’s not about anyone reading it, it’s about the need to get it out there, off our chests, out of our heads, then wad it up and be done with it. That little Empty Trash command noise being the last we ever hear of it.

For most, that’s enough. All we ever need to be done. A little more bite than writing it in a diary, because you could send it if you wanted to, but no need for anyone to ever read it. But, what if you wanted to send it and couldn’t? Pick a reason: no address, deceased, etc. Would you still write it? Would you get the resolve you needed?

Would you write a love letter that no one would ever read?

Would you write a love-story that should never be told?

Many of us out here on the internet walk the line between what should be told and not. Blur the lines of truth enough to still say what we need to without jeopardizing our reality.

But what if you were consumed by words and had no place to put them? A love letter you could never send him. Pick a reason; he’s your best friend’s brother, ex-husband, someone else’s husband, your boss, your employee, it doesn’t matter. It’s a love that’s been stamped with a social taboo and no one can ever know about it. Not even him.

What if it was the greatest love story of your life, growing like a tumor around your heart and you couldn’t share it with anyone: Would you still write it? Leave it behind, wrapped in linen in the hopes one day someone would stumble upon it and share it.

Maybe I’m a coward: Leaving words in the silence of lulls in conversation, or hanging in the thick air between our stares. Maybe I’ve no right to call myself a writer as I scribble the stories, scenes still fresh in my mind, into a place no on will ever read.

As I continue the sometimes futile effort of the semi-final stages of editing my first book I move further from the emotional connection I made with all its stories. The journey coming to an end and the loose ends tying up. Having spent the last two years embroiled in them, they are less a part of me and more a product of an effort. I’m less afraid about who reads them, who is offended by them or what people think. They’ve become easier to share.

Congruently, stories of another kind are surfacing. From another place, one I’ve found a voice in, but not the courage to share. So I write them down. Organize them and edit it them as if one day someone might read them. A collection now with a common thread but one with no ending. There are only two choices: Happily Ever After, or Tragically. And like all the other stories my creative courage as allowed me to tell, no matter the outcome, I only know to live and write without regret.