Reading and Writing

I was in elementary school when my mother gave me my first diary for Christmas. I had a lot to write about but was too concerned that my sisters would read it to write the real stuff.

I purchased my second diary with my allowance. It was one of those five-year diaries with a lock and key. Now I could write the real stuff. Some things I even wrote in my own coded language because I would have been in big trouble if my mother got wind of my use of adult words, among other things.

It seemed unfair that adulthood came with the benefit of using adult words and saying whatever one wanted. Adults didn’t need diaries, and the only filters were on the cigarettes they smoked—another adult activity. Having a way to express things I wasn’t permitted to say allowed me to do what grownups seemed to do all the time. Writing in my diary became a necessary act of rebellion. I mean, some things just had to be said.

Reading had a different set of rules.

My mother equipped me and my five sisters with library cards and instructions to borrow whatever books we wanted. I know now there were restrictions, but I’m glad she never mentioned them. I wandered the library with a sense of freedom, unaware of boundaries.

Before I reached my teens, I had read Homer, Robert K. Massie, Carolyn Keene, Richard Wright, Lewis Carroll, and E. B. White. It sounds cliché to say that reading took me places and made my world bigger, but it did. Reading became a favorite pastime, and books became trusted friends.

I was in high school before I gave much thought to the authors behind my growing collection of literary friends. I began to feel gratitude for the people who had written and published the words and stories I loved.

With rare exception, writing in school—with all its didactics—hadn’t inspired me or even pointed toward the kind of writing I enjoyed reading. I concluded that writers must simply be different from the rest of us. They didn’t choose writing; writing chose them. It had been bestowed upon them. Why else would they do it? How else could they be so good at it?

“Eight million stories in the naked city...”

The more books I read and the more life I lived, the more the connections among experience, story, narrative, writing, and writers became obvious. Everyone had a unique story—something they could write if they chose to. All the best stories were not found only in books. Somewhere I had read that life imitates art and art imitates life. I found that to be true.

Three years out of high school, I was already two years married with a one-year-old. Suddenly I had a lot to write about.

Not long before graduating from high school and firmly planted in church life, I made what seemed like a natural transition from diaries to the “devotional” notebooks sold in Christian bookstores. I figured devotionals were simply diaries for Christians. There were usually words of scripture on the cover and sometimes on every page.

By the time I reached official adulthood, I had stopped using adult language (among other things) and devotionals didn’t have locks. The rebellion was over.

Over the next decade, discovering that I could actually talk to God and be heard changed everything. I began expressing the real stuff verbally and mentally as I prayed or simply talked with Him as a Father. I didn’t write nearly as much.

Besides, devotionals always seemed to come with the expectation that what was written inside would resemble a Bible study more than real life.

Eventually I transitioned from devotionals to journals. A journal seemed broader, more expansive. It invited me to chronicle my journey. The real stuff.

It has been—and continues to be—an exciting journey. As I write this, I can finally say: I am a writer.

What if everyone wrote their story? What if everyone chronicled their journey? What if we recognized the value of those stories and encouraged this kind of writing from early childhood?

What if writing and publishing were expected, not only of those pursuing advanced degrees, but as milestones at the end of elementary school, middle school, and high school? What better way to understand both our uniqueness and our shared humanity?

There are those who write to advance humanity, to contribute to our collective evolution.

Some write to individuals—the micro.

Some write to groups—the meso.

Some write to institutions—the macro.

Others write to global systems—the mundo.

Each has its place.

I believe every one of us has something to say—a unique story, a narrative that adds to the whole. We are living, breathing stories that could fill the world with understanding. Knowing this, I write in the hope of becoming a catalyst for others to do the same.

The concerns about the fading of reading and writing from today’s society are well warranted. Books that make bestseller lists are often purchased with the best of intentions but read by surprisingly few. Some forms of handwriting are no longer taught in schools, and many young people cannot read cursive—even though signatures are still written in it.

I was encouraged recently by a great conversation with a 21-year-old college student who recognized for herself the need to learn cursive, or script, and decided to teach herself. I found that encouraging at a time when reading or writing anything beyond a few sentences sometimes seems to be disappearing—or even discouraged. Her decision to learn something that was no longer being taught reminded me that what is being lost can also be reclaimed.

Now we have entered the age of artificial intelligence, bringing both tremendous opportunity and understandable concern. But reading and writing are no less important because of AI. In fact, they are more important. They are the keys to our ability to comprehend, to think deeply, to reason, and to express ourselves.

Throughout history, governments that wished to control people often began by controlling knowledge. They banned and burned books or restricted access to ideas that threatened their power. The burning of books looks different today, but make no mistake—it is still happening.

Attention is constantly redirected. Focus is fragmented. Endless distraction crowds out deep thought. Reading gives way to scrolling. Writing gives way to reacting. Only short blurbs seem to hold our attention.

Although I know writing is a gift for some, I also believe that the desire to write often brings with it the ability to do so.

I've heard writers speak of their muse, but I know mine by another name. Whatever gifts of wisdom, imagination, and expression I possess have their source in God. Scripture tells us that in Him “are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”

I have found that to be true.

Author: Delphia Simmons

Delphia Simmons, Founder of Thrive Detroit, dedicated to amplifying voices and fostering community through storytelling.