To Love A Writer

It’s the writing hour.

It’s the time to replay decades’ old mistakes. To lay awake, wondering about my uncertain future. To think and dream of what would come. It’s the time to reevaluate every decision, and to give some things to God to hold for awhile. To trust outcomes and walk blindfolded on life’s thin tight rope.

Never could just go quietly. Nope, not me.

I’m going to throw all my change into a wishing well. Let it loudly clank against the rocks at the bottom as I scream wishes into the sky.

Each penny falls and I repetitively make the same wish. Betting all my money on one word:


Another person cannot define me. They complete the parts I lack. They make me laugh. I’ve missed laughing. Smiling, and the really good possibility of a laugh snort. They can lay for hours asking to learn my stories, and in return I ask to read parts of their book. In the quiet moments, there’s a solitary comfort. A mutual resting peace where two people know no words are needed. It’s okay to just soak in the day. To rest my head on their shoulder. To feel arms wrap around me. To tuck my blonde messy hair safely under their chin.

To not worry anymore. To lay next to a person who values loyalty as much as I do. We’d stand side by side holding each other up. The person who when I breakdown and cry, they sit next to me. They say no words other than, “I’m here. I’m sorry.” They wipe away the mess falling on my face. They know I’d always do the same. They know when their heart is crying, my heart breaks from watching them hurt.

They revel in my talent instead of cursing it. They read each and every word. Always asking to read more. Always wanting to hear the Wayne County accent behind the words. In the accent is the voice. To find someone who loves my voice unconditionally.

It took me a long time to find my own style, my voice. I had to battle, am still fighting, for it. I had to not believe the negativity. To rise not for any man, but for myself. To walk naked in front of a crowd and be comfortable standing there as all glare, remark, belittle and cast their opinions. They’ve hurled minimal truth. They’ve tossed their heavy judgment. I always replied, “thank you” and moved on, typing.

To have someone who understands coffee starts brewing at 2 a.m.
Because 3 a.m. is the writer’s hour. The world is quiet and my mind is loud.

In the room next to the household slumbering is something magical happening. The words can’t be erased or unwritten. They live for infinity. They will not let their master sleep until they’ve squeezed out every last little letter. They are the meticulous sedative waiting for proper grammar.

When I’m done, I come wearily and crawl naked next to a man. I lay there, relaxed and worn out. Arms drape over my body signaling I am safe to close my eyes and rest. I am loved.

To love a writer. To love the madness inside the timid shell. To love the way you can look at your girl and know she is seeing the world in words.




Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.


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