She didn’t collect selfies on her phone, and rarely allowed photos to be taken at all. When asked why she would joke that she was the most unphotogenic (which isn’t a word, but should be) person in the world.
But it wasn’t true.
The truth was that when she was five, her mother’s first husband (NOT her biological father – that’s a different story) said that when she smiled she looked like she’d swallowed lemons.
She lived a lifetime of avoiding photos because no matter what she did the image on the film or the screen was always sullen, or silly, or stupid, and she was none of those things.
She never kept a journal.
Why write things that no one will ever read? she asked, not really rhetorically.
But no one ever gave her a satisfying answer.
So she filled spiral notebooks with stories, stacks upon stacks of green-lined paper filled with glossy black or peacock blue. Wet ink. Roller balls. Micro-fine points. And when writing online became accessible to the masses, she did that, too, coding her first website in Lynx, creating her first blog in OpenDiary because LiveJournal hadn’t yet been invented.
(But you don’t keep diaries, she was reminded.)
(No, she said, I don’t write words that no one will read; people read this.)
The archives on her current blog, which is too infrequently updated these days, go back sixteen years. For a long time, she posted content daily, until she realized she didn’t want to write who she was.
She wanted to write who she wasn’t.
She wanted to take reality and give it a twist – just there – and a tweak – and in so doing, she revealed far more of herself than people realized.
She doesn’t keep journals. She doesn’t save photos of herself or others.
She doesn’t need external sources to help her retain the things that are printed indelibly on her memory: her mother’s singing (off-key, but enthusiastic), her husband’s eyes (twinkling blue, like the ocean she loves, and full of adoration), her grandmother’s gnarled hands and crooked fingers, her grandfather’s slightly bow-legged walk, the way her dog comes to visit her when she’s in the bath – biting at the bubbles and then shaking his head in confusion.
If you want to see me, she doesn’t say out loud, but expects people to understand, read my words.
That ink is my blood.
That paper is my body.
Handwritten scenes stuck to the fridge on brightly colored post-its.
Scrawled phrases in purse-sized Moleskine notebooks.
Digital files full of stories, some that are ready and some that are still perking.
She thinks in music, because music was her first language. (Foghorns and sea birds and boat horns and her mother’s singing. )
But she lives in lines of text.
About the author: Melissa A. Bartell
Melissa is a writer, voice actor, podcaster, itinerant musician, voracious reader, and collector of hats and rescue dogs. She is the author of The Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Holiday Tub. You can learn more about her on her blog, listen to her podcast, or connect with her on on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.