It’s a gift.
Some people cry at movies, or a really, really great song. Some people cry when their favourite character on a TV show dies. But others cry when they read words that make them feel something.
I remember the first time words made me cry. I was reading a book – it was Looking For Alaska by John Green, if you’re interested – and after a particularly dramatic chapter I dog-eared the page and had to stop reading because I couldn’t see through my tears any more.
The thoughts and feelings behind those words had such a profound effect on me that I actually had to remove myself from the room and calm down. It was a bit embarrassing, really. And it was the first time I fell in love with writing.
I write about a lot of things. I’ve written about Kim Kardashian more times than I care to admit. I often write about red carpets and movie premieres, and you can bet that every time a celebrity baby is born, I’m going to write about it.
But nothing makes me happier than writing something personal about my life, because when I read that book while doing my best ugly-cry all those years ago, I wanted nothing more than to affect someone else’s life the same way John Green had affected mine.
A few months ago, I had that chance. I wrote a very personal story about learning to come to terms with grief – something I still haven’t really done – because my grandmother is incredibly sick and has been for the last few years.
I remember telling my parents why I wanted to write the piece and why I felt it was important to do – because for me, it was a coping mechanism. I thought my words would help me heal and maybe, if I was lucky, they would help strangers who were going through something similar.
