I start to write a feature on a place I visited Saturday.
On paper, I see the words I type. They are mine. Indisputably, unequivocally, mine. I see them in my voice.
In my head, when I read them, I imagine hearing Rinaldi.
Perhaps this is a flaw in my creative process.
Perhaps it’s a reflection of some terrifying, mortal vulnerability
You decide which.
That I don’t see myself as fully capable of telling such heartbreaking, inspiring stories.
That I don’t believe an employer will ever truly like me enough to trust me with such things.
That I don’t believe I have much to offer
except a face for radio,
a voice for print,
a tone for silence on a page
and a knack for inventing new synonyms for self-deprecation.
Then again, maybe it’s something else.
Maybe it’s a sign of the vital, youthful swagger
that comes from both expectation and desire
the kind that comes when you believe if you can just work hard enough,
push long enough, seek hard enough,
you’ll find that story and become the best possible version of yourself. You’ll evolve your own voice
Not Rinaldi. You.
Maybe it’s a sign of timid confidence, but confidence.
The kind it takes to think that just because you haven’t risen your voice
doesn’t mean you can’t.
The strongest voices, after all, are the ones that are silent
until they aren’t.
The ones that speak only in a whisper
but whose whisper is loud enough to silence a combusting conference room.
I have railed on, shouting my proclamations for what felt like years,
but for what might have been mere seconds in the development of a writer.
I have desperately preached what I hoped might be wisdom from what I felt were mountains,
but from what might have been merely as high and stable
as sandcastles among the masses.
But maybe what the world
or I… or both,… need more than anything right now,
is for me to be silent.
until I’m not. then
Perhaps not with a proclamation. a whisper.
You decide which.