These words are not enough

12:00 A.M IN NORWAY

It’s still bright out here. So bright it doesn’t make sense. But there was little that made sense on this entire trip.

I lost myself in Norway.

Walking through King’s Park in Oslo, the sweet scent of lilacs against local chants of “holde oljen i bakken,” my life started to change.

I was in Norway for the WEXFO Freedom of Expression conference, which for me occurred in three parts starting first in the city of Oslo. It was there I met the rest of the group, an assemble of writers and journalists and activists who came together to continue the fight for our collective freedoms.

I first fell off the path on that walk. Two activists were at my side, both forced the flee their countries for fear of persecution, for fear of repression, for fear of their lives and the lives of their families.

For one of them, their brother has spent a decade behind bars. Trapped in a cell, he used his words to continue the fight. I listened to his sister read some of those words.

My eyes were starting to open.

At our first gathering, we sat in a circle and performed “Empty Chair” readings, a ritual I had never heard or been a part of. We read words of those who could not be there with us. I chose the words of an Iranian rapper who was sentenced to death for his lyrics of resistance.

Now my eyes were wide open.

When I say that “these words are not enough,” I am echoing the sentiment of another one of my colleagues. She sat beside me in our circle and said she was in a place where her words didn’t feel like they were enough to have an impact.

I closed my eyes and imagined:

In what world would I feel that way? Me — an author who wrote my first book at eight years old, a writer who has committed my life to these words and to helping others discover the power of their words — can I ever say that they will not be enough?

But here I am and now I feel conflicted.

I know logically that I can only face my own realities. And living in Canada, some of the circumstances that I’ve described are not my realities. But how can I hear these stories and not feel changed? How can I go back to writing as usual when I now know people personally who may never share that privilege?

My conflict is also internal. As much pain as I encountered, I also felt hope. It’s like the sun was fighting to shine its rays through my soul while the shade of the moon dimmed my heart.

What is this feeling?

I started analyzing every novel I’ve ever written, every article I’ve ever constructed, every word I’ve typed on a page. What was it all for? What does it all mean?

I say over and over again that writers are superstars and yet I feel somewhat incompetent. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but I am a Cancer so allow my emotions some grace.

When I say I feel incompetent, I simply mean that my vision is no longer clear. So much of what I thought was important no longer feels urgent. But in that very same thought, everything feels even more urgent, everything feels more dyer, everything feels necessary. My words feel more necessary.

I will not stop writing. That is not the answer for me; I know that. But what will change for me? How will I change? How will my writing change?

As I grapple with these questions, I hope that you will give me some space to figure myself out. This community is special to me. So many of you connect with my words and I would never take that for granted. I know what it means to read these passages and I am so humbled that we have grown to the thousands.

Writers Are Superstars is a special space for me as I hope it is for you. It will continue on. And I will find a way to continue on, perhaps with a lens that has been smudged, but I will persist nonetheless.

I’m curious if any of you have had a transformational experience? Please share in the comments. It will help tremendously to know I am not alone in this.