"So I'm totally diggin' this guy right now," I told my new acquaintance, glancing at her in the passenger's seat before shifting my eyes back to the road. We'd known each other for about a month, and she was quickly making headway for inclusion in my limited friendship circle. I offered to give her a ride home on a rainy November afternoon.

"Yeah? How did you guys meet?"

I explained that we'd known each other for some time, ran in similar circles and discovered similar tastes between us. He was cute - deep chestnut eyes, kissable lips that parted to allow a soft southern accent to escape when he spoke, a smile that melted me at the core when he didn't. He was tall, hovering a full foot over my tiny frame.

We'd met at an on-campus party. He was so damn quiet. I'd been dancing in a group of girlfriends, and there he was, quietly standing against the wall. We made eye contact briefly - he offered a soft southern smile. I smiled back and return to my groove.

Guys pingponged their way around our group, bouncing around us and trying to find an in with the girl of his choice. It didn't surprise me to feel a man dancing behind me, but it shocked me when I turned and saw him, smiling that sweet smile over my shoulder - and working it out surprisingly well on the floor.

We left the party together later. We talked all night. We kissed.

We'd only been official for a week or so. Didn't matter - hell, calendar days were whizzing by and I didn't even notice. Every day felt like a new one. Every kiss felt like the first.

"Very cool," my friend said. "What's his name again?"

I told her. I met her eyes again.

And no sooner had the moniker fell from my lips, I knew.

She, too, had been smitten by that soft southern swagger. Our talks were theirs. Our kisses had been shared. Two calendars were frozen in time over the same man.

The road suddenly grew blurry, and I hated myself for allowing the blistering tears to prick my eyes. Her apologies may as well have come in Arabic, in Haitian Creole, in straight jibberish, for all I knew. I could barely process it. 'Sorrys' and 'didn't knows' and 'whys' and 'hows' were the only familiar terms that filled the thick space in my car. She wouldn't stop talking, couldn't stop apologizing.

I never wanted anyone to shut up more in my life.

I don't even know how I found her apartment. I just couldn't wait to get her ass out of my front seat and into the cold rain and gray skies. Good, I thought spitefully, even as I knew she was less at fault than our communal Gulf Coast companion.

"We'll talk about this soon, right?" she queried.

I nodded halfheartedly, my tongue too heavy to construct the half-truth she needed to hear. She was barely out of the car before I picked up my cell phone and dialed his number with leaden digits, knowing exactly what I had to do. No explanations necessary.

He answered on the third ring, nearly melted me again with that stupid southern drawl. I cut his greeting short and tossed out her name, just to see how it would register.

Dead silence. Until I filled the quiet with two words. "It's over."

Consolation

Dear 16-year-old Self:

If only you knew how awesome you're going to be 15 years from now.

I know you don't think so. I know you feel out of place after trading your Virginia roots for the Colorado Rockies, like a fish out of water left to drown in a sea of mountains. I know you're more comfortable in your tiny hometown where everyone Cheers you on and knows your name, unlike the Mile High City's one-way streets and impersonal bustling busyness.

I know your close-knit East Coast family has been traded for an abrasive, abusive Western stepfather who leaves you and your mother in tears day in, day out. I know your sanctuary is created within the four walls of your room, sitting mutely, praying your silence will make him forget your existence and give him no reason to rattle the walls with his vodka-laced rants.

You won't believe me, I know, but you are still the same amazingly creative young woman you were before you came here. One day, his words won't matter. The fact that he told you to stop writing sh!t down because 'it can be used against you' will fade into the woodworks of your mind in time. And when it does, be ready.

It will happen over the span of a few months, when you've become happily reacquainted with the Old Dominion once more, when you've gone on to become a married woman, a big sister to two beautiful young girls, when you're 'happy' but just about given up on ever writing something of your own again. It will happen when a certain singer/songwriter creates an annoyingly catchy song that makes you curious about what other works he's done. You'll find comfort in his creations and love in his lexicon. The light bulb will come back on again, and words will flow through you like the hundreds of waterways of your home.

It will hurt. You'll hate it. The things you produce won't always work. You'll try to figure out why it doesn't happen as easily as it used to. But it will happen.

And even though you don't think you have a friend in the world now, you'll retain many of the ones you've made in the Centennial State, most of whom gave you a place to stay for a night, a week, a month when he turned you loose in the powdery winter snow, alone. They'll visit you, hug you, tell you how proud they are that you made it through the storms, and revel in the sunshine with you today.

You are amazing. In time, you will realize that yourself.

Sincerely,
31-year-old Self

PS: You'll finally learn to drive a manual. In fact, it will become your style of preference. So stop worrying about sputtering out in the neighborhood in your little Mazda now. It will pay off. Trust me - first gear is always the hardest.

I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I forgot that I am a writer.

I only recently remembered.

I am not defined that way because it is my job, the weekly clutter of red-inked edits and grammatical guidelines that fill my head.

I am defined that way because of the love I've rediscovered for writing beyond the walls of my workplace.

I thought my gift was gone because as I sought words on my own time, from the recesses of my own brain, nothing came out for years - blank pages staring back at me, waiting for answers I thought I did not have.

I now know it's always been there, waiting for me to pick it up again, like an old toy discarded in a corner.

It is only that life - its ugliness, its stresses, its abuses - pushed Inspiration to the back of my mind.

I have cleared the disarray, invited beauty, peace and love inside, welcomed Inspiration back to the forefront where it belongs.

I am not great, nor am I graceful. I am not perfect nor pristine in my words.

I will not always make sense, in this realm, in the pages of my pen-scribed journal, even in the corners of my mind.

But I am a writer - once again, on my own terms.

For good or bad, I am a writer.

That much I've learned.

That much I know.