AtLANGE (43)


It’s Friday and what is up at Lange? Before we say thank you for this week and welcome the weekend, here is a word from the Publishing Manager Lilith.

When I was a child I could not say what I wanted to say, but I had to write a letter to the person I wanted to talk to.

I couldn’t find the strength to get the important words out. They were stuck in my head and heart. I used to put letters on my mother’s pillow. And on the breakfast table and in her drawer. Where ever I found a spot. I wrote poems, questions, angry letters, sad letters, and worrying letters. All that was in my head. She sometimes answered back, but not by writing. I felt safe, my words were safe no matter what she said to me. I had said what I wanted and didn’t need a reply. 

In my school years from kindergarten to high school, I said as little as possible. I hated when the teacher asked me to answer in front of the whole classroom. I didn’t want that attention. And when we had to hold speeches it felt as if I would die. I tried to be sick those days, but sometimes I had to go anyway. Those times my mother received many letters from me where I poured my anxiety out. She often ignored me. It was too hard for her to reply.

In my days away from school I was free. I could speak about what had happened in school or anything really. My words from my mouth couldn’t stop. Then my mother would sigh and tell me I talked too much. So I went back to my room with my books and my papers and wrote down all that I had inside me.

Once in a while, I would go with my father in his truck and we listen to music and talked. He never complained that I talked so much because he talked a lot too. Those times were the happiest times in my childhood.

My alone time with my father, driving to his work with ABBA blasting out of the speakers.

I could sit all quiet and just enjoy the moment and make up stories in my head. Stories that I put down on paper when I came home.

I won two writing Contests when I was a kid. My mother was proud and told everyone. I was her girl. Her bright girl. I was happy. I wanted her to be proud.

I think she loved me the most when I was quiet and wrote stories and letters to her. And I did as much as I could. I have continued to write even in my adult years. The words just flow out of me and into whatever I write, with such ease. I could never talk that well. I am not a talker, I am a writer. And that is okay.

Lilith is an Author and Publishing Manager at Lange Publisher

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