So we sat on the couch and I listened to the power in his voice. The emotion flowed through his sentences like they were freshly written. Smooth. Secure. Aware of their power. I was captivated by everything he said. He finished, and asked me to find a particular …thing… I wrote then told me to read it to him.
I wasn’t ready. Flattered that he wanted to hear my stuff but nervous that he wanted to…ya know, hear my stuff. Reading aloud to someone else? I couldn’t stall long though. So I found it and began. My voice was weak as though I was reading an instruction manual. No bass, no boom, no emotion. He stopped me and read it himself.
How can I lack so much emotion when reading after try to put a soul and a half into what I write? I’m embarrassed. Writing leaves the emotion on the page but reading? It makes it real. Tangible. No longer a scramble of letters but actual ideas that the world can hear. Writing with emotion is easy but reading it back and reminding myself that these feelings are real can be too much of a shock.
One day I’ll find a spark to help me share these things but until then I’ll ask him to read with emotion while I listen, captivated by my own words.