Finding Solace in Prose
By: Edie Tuck
Tags: Solace, Prose, Writing, Healing, Therapy

Writing has always been an escape for me. But it’s only recently, in the last few years, that I’ve really let myself indulge fully.

There’s a certain peaceful beauty in being able to lace letters and words together to form thoughts and sentences. Whether the words are for my eyes only, or to share with whoever wants to read them, there’s a freedom there. Freedom of expression, a creative outlet.

It’s like nothing else; the ultimate art form.

I can choose to be precise, to follow the rules and structure imposed upon us by scholars both past and present. Be true to the laws of grammar and style. Or I can decide to be a rebel and let my thoughts flow freely onto the page, bleed out where they may, forming seemingly structureless prose only I can understand, but that others may also find beauty within.

For me, as I’m sure for many, it all started many years ago with two unassuming little words that were kept under flimsy lock and key: “Dear Diary.” A little girl’s first confidante, those dog-eared pages get filled with the day’s highs and lows. All of the he-said-she-said, so-and-sos, and the crush of the week.

It got tucked beneath the mattress in hopes that my mom wouldn’t find it when she changed the bed-clothes. It was the ultimate secret-keeper. It knew everything, all of the dirty bits and pieces I wouldn’t dare tell even my best friend, because she’d probably blab.

Soon, the pink sparkle unicorn-clad shiny books were replaced with more ‘mature’ and inconspicuous counterparts kept in the secret compartments of my backpack. It contained slightly more grownup versions of the sparkly versions I’d long lost the tiny keys for. Heartbreaks, betrayals, teacher crushes; the kind I couldn’t scribble on the cover of my history books.

Then for a while, the words stopped. They stayed dormant inside my mind, longing to be heard, but unable to be uttered. The darkness enveloped me. I was as trapped inside my own mind as the words were. I felt I didn’t have a voice, and that even if I did have something to say, nobody would want to hear it.

I was lost. Alone with an infant daughter. Smiling unconvincingly on the outside, but screaming on the inside. Filled with unbearable sadness I couldn’t control, debilitating desperation I didn’t want, and no shred of self-confidence.

I felt like I was nothing. Useless waste of space. But I had my beautiful baby girl, and she kept me going. And then, eventually, I found my words again.

When the words came back, they did so in the form of poetry. They flowed out of me faster than I could capture them. I’m sure some were lost along the way, along with the darkness and despair.

Writing became a solace. I no longer needed Diary, my old friend.

And then one fine day, I found fiction. Or rather, fiction found me. In a two-inch-thick spiral-bound notebook, I began drafting my first-ever novel. One that was loosely based on my love interest at the time, and would never make it past the first couple of chapters. I still kind of remember the story, even nearly twenty years later. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll try to revive it.

That love of fiction has remained with me and grown since then but has often been relegated to the back burner of my life. Never really believing in myself, it was nothing but a silly pastime. A pipe dream.

Of course, I loved to write, but nobody in their right mind would ever want to read anything that came out of my head. I mean, why would they? It was probably garbage anyway.

And then it happened. My daughter went off to university to become an actress, and I became an empty nester at the age of thirty-seven. I was heartbroken. I missed my daughter, my best friend. What in the world was I going to do? Oh, I know, how about writing a book?

For the first time in my life, I took ‘quitting’ out of my vocabulary. it simply wasn’t an option. It took me a long time, but my first novel was finally born. And then my second, then a third, and I’m about to embark on the journey to my fourth. Of course, none of them are published (yet), but I’m not allowing that to deter me.

For a really long time, I’ve dreamed about making writing my career. My life. I imagine myself sitting on a giant covered porch with the ocean as my backyard, mountains as the front yard, and nothing but peaceful quiet bliss all around me.

Just me, my cup of coffee, and my laptop. Oh, and the crashing waves. Can’t forget those.

Now, for the first time, I see this as something that can, and will, eventually happen, instead of just something I get lost in daydreams about.

Writing is in my blood. It’s woven into the very fabric of my soul, and I simply can longer picture my life without it. Whether I’m putting pen to paper, fingertips to my keyboard, or even when I’m laying in bed trying to go to sleep, I’m writing. There’s always a story playing around in my head.

Whether I’m feeling sad, or angry, or in love, or overjoyed, writing is what I turn to. It transports me, elevates me, transforms me. Writing is my personal therapy, it listens and never judges; simply taking my innermost thoughts and transposing them into something real that I can keep to myself or share with the world.

Writing has the power to heal those ills that medicine couldn’t even fathom. It is part of who I am, who I will always be. I refuse to ever allow that part of me to be ignored or neglected again. Writing has allowed me to find self-love. For that, I will forever be grateful.