I have words for you.
I created Twitter so I could enter a contest for some fishing lures. What I won was myself as a woman, a writer and a friend. This is your fault.
I have met some of the most amazing people. Just when I think my heart is full, I meet someone else. You have given me so much love, joy, strength, and encouragement. You have laughed with me, shared dirty jokes, shared my outrage, cried with me, prayed with me, and sent so many messages that simply said “I’ve been there. I made it, and you will too.” You’ve shown me that its ok to be vulnerable, to be afraid, and honest about how I feel.
I read your tweets of pain, of fear, of loneliness. I read about your self-doubt and having a bad day. Then I’d watch as hordes of tweeplings would rush to offer comfort, words of encouragement, send funny gifs, crack jokes, and yank you out of that darkness you were drowning in. A swarm of love for the little things and the big. No questions asked. No payment necessary. I learned how to offer that love. More than that, I learned to accept it. To trust it. To believe it. This is your fault.
Little by little, tweet by tweet, I opened up. I let myself be weird, quirky, funny, depraved, and flirty. It feels so fucking good just to be all of me. If I could I would hug the everlasting shit out of y’all and all of the people responsible for making you such shining lights in my life.
Because of you I have the courage to live a little more messy, a little wilder, a little more reckless. On twitter and in my everyday life. You should at least offer to pay my bail money if i ever get in trouble.
My writing has taken a whole new life. This is your fault too. You tweet about the good and the bad. Your frustration, your word counts, the editing, the heart break of a rejection letter, and the thrill of getting to hold your first book. I’m so encouraged to see people who work so hard and so long to finally reach their goals. You unraveled the romanticism and mystery of publishing for me. You showed me that real writers show up to the page.
So scared as I am, I dive right into the page, and write until my wild heart is oblivious to the fear. I keep going cause you did. I keep going so I can feel the pages of of my book like so many of you have. So I can make you cry and tweet me love/hate messages. I keep writing because it is so hard not to leave parts of me and you on the page in front of me. Its no longer about money or fame. Its about sharing something I’ve held onto for so long. I blame you for setting me free.
From the bottom of my heart to the top, thank you. This is a debt I’ll never be able to repay.
All my love,