I became a writer because I wanted the freedom to be an animal. I wanted to lose the burden of my humanity when I wrote, to become pure sinew and blood and instinct. At all other tasks, I was a beginner. I started out not knowing how to do them and ended knowing how to do them—but not as well as other people, and always needing improvement. But writing—well, with writing, I felt that I had everything I needed inside of me, everything I would need to write anything.

I knew that the stories, poems, and plays were already inside me, written in my heart, and that the physical act of putting pen to paper was the final step. I learned to write out of the belief that I could, that I was a writer, that I deserved to write, and that I mattered. I learned to write from following dim trails of emotion in my mind. I seized upon the emotions I was supposed to flatten, kill, and ignore—and I seized upon them until they lay naked on the page, beautiful as pinned butterflies, although inanimate and dead. I learned I could turn my mysterious feelings into writing. Writing that people would read and never really understand.

That could be all. I could move away to just focus on this writing. Living in a cardboard box under a bridge with nothing but paper and pencils, with my writing as my only friend.

But I still want more. I need more.

When people read my writing, maybe, they will never understand me. But they might understand themselves better. In a way, that’s like losing my writing—feeling that disconnection between my writing and myself.

It’s something so close and personal to me, and I have to let it go. There are risks. I can’t ever be sure if people will like it, and if worst comes to worst, if they tell me it’s terrible, that I’m terrible . . . well, then . . . I’ll have to start all over again, teaching myself to trust my own voice on the page.

Is safety really the most important part of a writer’s life, though? I am willing to give away my words now. I just want to see people smile again, even for a minute or two. I need to put my words out into the world, so the world is a less hurtful place than it was before. I need to cancel out the effect of all those millions and millions of terrible words that are spoken every day.

Then I remember all those times when I was brave and my words did make a difference.

There was that time I was sixteen and riding downstate on the Amtrak for the first time, and I carefully copied a poem from my journal onto a piece of notebook paper, then slipped it to the random girl next to me. It was a silly little poem about drinking peach Pepsi on the train. After she read it, she said, “I’ll keep it forever,” and gave me a pink keychain so I’d always remember her. We spent the entire three hours talking to each other like friends. After I got home from my trip, I still kept in touch with her for a while; she was the one who convinced me to cut my own hair and scare my family half to death. All that because of a poem.

Another time, I happened to be on a summer Greyhound trip, and while stranded at the Louisville bus station, I copied down another poem to slip to my seatmate. She was fleeing an abusive man, she said. A few minutes later, I found her and a really old lady sitting on a bench in the cigarette-strewn courtyard, reading the poem together. And there were more tears and she, also, said she’d keep it forever. I wonder how she’s doing now.

One idea I tried once, that I really wish I could try again, was setting up a “free poetry” booth at a block party. On a chalkboard I wrote, “Give me a word, any word, and I’ll write a poem about it.” All the little kids in their Halloween costumes wanted to mess with the chalkboard and try out writing in my journals, and I just went ahead and let them. I may not have been the most normal-looking attraction at that party, but there were a few folks, like this Hungarian family and a young mom with her daughter, who sent out requests, and I wrote for them.

Sadly, I never got to do that again, but there are endless ways to spread love, light, and literature in the world. Sure, I will never be as big or famous as U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón, who started a “Poetry in Parks” initiative to install picnic tables bearing famous poems on them at seven national parks. Still, I don’t need a lot of time or money to do what needs to be done—all I need is a pen or pencil, paper, a spare book to hand out, and a lot of courage. Every time I see those “little free libraries” in people’s front yards, I am reminded of how simple it can be. I am learning constantly from other literature lovers as well. For instance, once I found a poetry book that was literally titled “Rip This Poem Out,” and the poet really expected the readers to do just that—rip out the poems and spread them around the world.

One day, for no reason whatsoever, I folded up three poems, concealed them in envelopes, wrote “Free Poem” on them, and quietly distributed them around campus. One went in a shopping basket at the bookstore, one went behind the microwave in the cafeteria, and I can’t remember where I put the other one. I know some girls discovered the microwave poem, and I think they just read it and put it back, but it was interesting to watch.

I may do it again sometime.

Sometimes, you underestimate the power of just one poem.

Here is the article about “Poetry in Parks“

Me being obsessed with books even at two years old.

Here’s the book “Rip This Poem Out” by Michael F. Latza