What now seems like a lifetime ago, I was scrolling through Facebook writing groups, sighing, and lamenting at more of the same. Everyone wanted to be like everyone else. Everyone’s writing was just rearranged words and phrases – laying claim to thoughts that had been thought and words that had been written. Like playing a childish game of word scramble where all the rules have been thrown out the window and all involved were convinced, they said it first.
And then I began to see someone new. She was shy and quiet in her writing. Painting kaleidoscopes of images awash with love and rage, desperation and longing, a soul with its wings tacked to the floor. I knew that writing. I felt that writing in my bones.
I followed her, eagerly awaiting some new piece of prose that she would share with others, watching her become frustrated and disheartened when shallow hearts flocked to the merry word scramblers. She truly had no idea how utterly amazing she was, trying to stuff her light into an ordinary box to fit with the usual – when she was so much more.
Day after day, I would tell her how brilliant her writing was and share it with other souls who dwelt in the deep, who understood that life was more than the shallow end.
I watched as she slowly shed things like normality and conformity – I watched as she leapt and spread her wings, still doubting her own ability to fly, but throwing every ounce of courage she possessed into the pursuit.
I watched as she became. I would never dare to compare her writing to another. It is brilliant and emotional. And, more importantly, it is unafraid.
Someday soon, I will open a book authored by Jennifer Daves, I will get to say I knew her when...
But today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life, I can say she is my friend, my sister.