Sometimes, I forget that all my characters don’t have to have perfectly witty comebacks for every line. Or a show-stopping quote.
Sometimes, I forget that not all people are super extroverts who suddenly form fast friendships to go on magical quests or save the world or something like that.
Sometimes, I forget that I, though a self-identifying introverted extrovert, also have my quiet moments. Sometimes, in some situations, I just don’t feel comfortable enough to speak.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking.
When I write my stories, I often insert pieces of myself into my writing… No, not like a Horcrux.
My personality, wish fulfillment, and generally, all my good one-liners go into my writing. To breathe life into it, I kinda give my story, well…
No, no, not like a medieval witching sacrifice. I mean, I give it my experiences. My friendships. The times I felt sad or fell into periods of bad mental health. Times where I felt I had villains, whether they were inside me or forces beyond my control.
Times where I felt I needed a hero.
But who was the hero that bookish young me would’ve wanted? The girl who sat in the corners of rooms and got laughed at. Who could only sadly smile when people threw boxes at her head. The girl who read books because people always teased her for being fat, uncoordinated, too sarcastic, and ugly.
She would’ve wanted to see if there was power in thinking instead of talking. In not being the loudest person in the room. In not being in the spotlight every day. She would’ve wanted to see if being the quiet kid meant being boring, or if it meant something more. Something powerful, in its own, measured way.
Because being quiet gives you the ability to think. To believe. To dream.
We don’t always have to fill the empty air with words. Sometimes, it’s enough to just be present. Be kind. And be powerful in whatever way power is best channeled for you.
Be happy, lovelies. You’re all wonderful heroes, whether quiet or no.