Definition of a writer: One who sits alone at a computer for hours on end at various times of the day or night, immersed in words, language, and ideas, questioning at regular intervals about the sanity, and sanctity of such an activity; yet, unable to resist.

Putting ourselves out there in any aspect of life is extremely difficult and wrought with the inner tinkling of should haves, what ifs, exuberance, doubts, and then conviction. It’s so hard to be vulnerable. Is this though, also where we find the greatest gifts? I am clinging to that idea. I do believe that when we allow others into our lives, share true emotions and experiences, we initiate, ignite, and inspire the best in one another.

We are immensely interested in other people’s lives. It has become an obsession. We are glued to the television as the Bachelor kisses and says goodbye; as any Kardashian on any given day, marries, divorces, gains weight, shops, or has lunch with a friend. There does, though, seem to be some distinction between what we see and what we read. Words are powerful. They are emotive, capable of great manipulation and often ripe with subtext. And watching life as it unfolds on the screen gives us the illusion that it is accurate. Is seeing believing?

There are some brave writers. Joan Diddion, The Year of Magical Thinking, is a memoir of grief that is painfully raw. It’s impossible for me to imagine how she could give so much of herself. How can someone be so honest? Certainly as writers, we use fragments from our own lives in characters, or springboards to stories. Alice Monroe in an interview in “The New Yorker” about Dear Life, reflects, “I have used bits and pieces of my own life always, but the last things in the new book were all simple truth.”

Simple truth. I love that. I find these kinds of writers courageous, and liberating. It is breath taking to be able to take the risk of sharing the mechanisms of our lives with the world. The truth is I am always struggling with the ying and yang of how much of myself to give to a story, and yet fiction is from life. It’s not straightforward.

I’ve written a book, and it will be published this year. Conversations for Two is the story of a woman, who in the most serendipitous way comes in to possession of her brother’s box of poetry and journals twenty-five years after his death. The story unfolds within her journey to interpret his life through the words he left behind, trying to make sense of his death, her role in it, and chasing the illusive ‘why’. It has roots in truth and wings in fiction.

Writing our stories is not the kind of voyeurism, the ‘reality’ we see on television, where people sign on to portray their lives for entertainment. When we read a story that reaches inside of us, and takes us alongside the journey, it’s a very powerful trip indeed. And, yes, I do believe, that there is a gift, a silver lining, in collecting our lives and sharing our writer within.