my wrists hurt

because i punched the door.

in a recent interview with ken tucker, stephen king proposes the following as The Writer's Purpose: 

the major job is still to entertain people... that’s what we’re supposed to do—writers, filmmakers, all of us. that’s why they let us stay in the playground.

wrong.

"but joanna, how many chart-topping titles do you have? & how many movies have been made out of your books? he's been writing forever, so..." true. i have no titles. i have no movies. however, being a bestselling author doesn't mean you're right.

my purpose? there are things that people don't know or don't see, & that cannot stand. i cannot sit by & watch the world pass, its fullness unconsidered by humanity. i know that what i live differs from most, & though not all are destined to understand, at least some must see. if i make no effort to express, then i make no effort to illuminate & unite, resulting in a waste of existence. life is too precious to go on unexamined, unshared, & unaccompanied; thus, mine is the art of revelation, wrapped in the coil of truth.

i take particular issue with king's assertion that entertainment is the crux of the writer's calling. one word specifically sticks in my craw: "playground." perhaps he is lucky enough to run around with other grown children in perpetuity, & i wish him no ill-will. may he enjoy his lot. however, not everyone is so fortunate to enjoy writing as play, & he does the rest of us a disservice by implying that ours is a profession possessed by a childlike naïveté & rid of the burdensome realities of adulthood. 

i said that i write to reveal, & many times, the obligation flays. it hurts, but i have to share. every time i allude to 8+ years ago, i relive those moments. half hour? or maybe ten minutes? i don't even know. my mind is a blur, & then it clears, & then i realize what's happening. words like "no" & "stop" are meaningless. i had no legal recourse because what had occurred was technically not illegal until four years after the fact. because lawmakers could not define what was what & what parts shouldn't go where when, there was no way to rectify the monstrous indignity perpetrated against me. to wit, since no law had been broken, i must have done something wrong. it must have been my fault. i wanted to die, many times over.

this has to be harsh to read, especially for my family. for shame's sake, i didn't tell anyone what had happened. the further i pushed it down, the more i could pretend that it hadn't happened. except it did, & it wouldn't stay down. the harder i fought it, the darker my world got, & the suicidal ideations grew in both frequency & intensity. the day finally came when i realized that telling was healing, & i let go. i called it for what it was, & actually voicing the word "rape" was painful but palliative. to move forward, i needed to do two things: name, & share.

after writing & speaking these truths for a few years now, with substantial inelegance at first, i am far healthier than before, & i am stronger than perhaps i ever was to begin with. while written revelations continue to sting, they remain necessary because there are others like me. shame threatens to overtake her, & she needs to know that it is not her fault. dark reality strangles him, & he needs to know that he can be is a survivor, too. to be plain, i've punched my ticket to hell enough times to know that it's my job to accompany others on the same journey, so they can find their way back to life.

to mr. king--i fully respect your position & your success, & i wish you many years of continued joy in your work. i appreciate what you do, & i've benefited from what you've shared with us novices in your book on writing. many sincere thanks. that said, however, i do ask that you not assign your reasons for writing to the rest of us (or, at the very least, to me), as the motivation behind my thoughts is exceedingly different from that which is behind yours. though i'm sure you didn't mean it as such, the blanket statement [that my job is to entertain] hurts. my duty to share my journey is by no means a day in the afternoon sunshine. unlike you, i don't get to frolic in the schoolyard. i labor in real life.