Writing about my dark thoughts

Writing about my dark thoughts didn’t make me sad. I think it kept me alive. No matter how bad a day might be, it would wind up a good one if I could turn out a poem. I knew that as soon as Daddy came home, we’d snuggle together in his overstuffed armchair and I’d read it out loud to him while he blew thoughtful smoke rings. Nothing could touch me in that chair; it felt like the safest place in the world.

Words have always kept me safe. It doesn’t matter if I’m reading someone else’s or scratching out my own. Words reach inside me, take hold of my thoughts, and focus them into some semblance of clarity. Otherwise, I’d be wandering through the universe untethered, full of inchoate fears and nameless dread. Words give my shambolic mind structure, and without structure, I’d be lost.

I suppose it’s not surprising that I became a lawyer—a profession that relies so heavily on rules and writing skills. In retrospect, it was a train wreck of a decision, but I stuck it out for almost two decades as an entertainment litigator, representing clients like Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones and major motion picture studios.

Terri Cheney