Sometimes I think I'm the only one who's ever felt a certain way, so no one would ever understand what I'm going through because no one else lived through my f-d up childhood, no else had to deal with raising a small child alone in the wilderness, no one else had to do all the things I pioneered through. But that doesn't matter. We all can imagine being in each other's situations, and even though my experiences are unique to me, other people feel similarly enough for the writing of these incidents to be universally appealing.
Scrolling through social media sites reveals this when others are brave enough to share their feelings instead of just memes and reposts of misquotes. Not me, though. I want my page to be clean, like my house. People can normally only see what sparkles. No messy emotions here, nothing to share, keep on moving. I'm that Lego piece that doesn't seem to fit anywhere, the green one with the weird shape that belongs to a specialized set that has been out of production for over a decade. Nothing I share could possibly be relevant to anyone else. I am unique to me. I'm unrelatable, an observer in life, not one who belongs really in any one place or time. In other words, I'm a writer.
And there are lots of me. There's a whole set full of just the weird-shaped Legos, wondering if anyone has ever felt the way they do or close enough to it to understand and want to share their experiences with the world to see if anyone will buy what they print and say, "Yes, that makes sense. I can feel that now." Maybe me and my words do belong somewhere.
So maybe that's the point. The house doesn't have to be sparkling for others to come over, but make sure there are no Legos on the floor. Because stepping on them hurts. A lot. And if it hurts, then we have to write about it and share it with the world. That's what we do. Because we are all connected.