I just returned from seeing the movie “The Help” with a friend. About some parts of the movie, I’m speechless. The heartbreak … the courage … the connections between people both black and white … and the disconnections–it all touched my heart. My friend and I can’t imagine how it must have been in the south during that time, when the people who raised you were the people you grew up to master.
One thing struck me speechless even more than the others. As as writer, I was proud of the book the characters created and what it meant to everyone involved–even those who would have just as soon it had never been written. It was the young writer who had the courage to suggest the book and the skill to put it together. But it was the maids who told the stories who really owned that book.
This humbled me. I love telling people I’m a writer, and I’m proud of my skill. I always try to do good things with my writing. But it isn’t me who deserves kudos for the projects I do. I am a ghost. I am pushing the pen or tapping the keys for those who don’t have the skill. What they do have is stories. In my work, I tell stories about heating and air conditioning companies, politicians, a tatting company, the human resources profession, tools that help higher education professionals process transactions that line the framework of students’ lives.
The miracle is not the fact that God gave me the skill and talent to do what I do. It’s the fact that we all have stories to tell. That’s the miracle that powers my world as a writer. That’s what makes my words powerful.
