People like the idea of telling stories anonymously. I don’t. I’m a writer. My writing is always connected to me, whether you know my name or not. But for those who claim they’re not writers (though they are because anyone who writes is a writer, but for the sake of this post, let’s give the “non-writers” the benefit of the doubt and pretend they don’t belong to the writer label), anonymity allows certain feelings and thoughts to get out onto the page that might never have made it there if written under a byline.
The Strangers Project takes advantage of that.
The story I contributed yesterday in the park wasn’t deep or even very revealing (it discussed the time this weekend when a first date told me I should give up on sending messages on online dating sites because I’m too intimidating–for being intelligent and seeming like I have a life–for any guy to ever respond). But then, most of my stories aren’t. I don’t have too many dark secrets. I’m a writer. Everything there is to know about me has probably already been written. I just find ways to rewrite those things.
Which, of course, is all everyone everywhere ever does. Yet somehow they keep finding more magical ways to say the things that have already been said.
Which, of course, is why I love reading. And writing. And The Strangers Project–because it reminds people that we all have something to say.