What Happens When You Answer Honestly

What Writing Through #MeetTheWriter Revealed About Grief Voice and Becoming

In May 2025,

Beth Kempton

launched a 15-day #MeetTheWriter challenge on Substack to help writers explore and share their creative journeys. I committed to participating fully, responding to each prompt with honesty and depth. This essay is the culmination of those reflections—fifteen days of delving into why I write, how I write, and what writing means to me.

#meetthewriter Day 1: CONFESSION

✨Why do you really love writing? I have called this one ‘confession’ because I want to invite you to explore why you think you really return to the page over and over (which might be different from what other might expect you to say). ✨

CONFESSION – “I Wrote Her Letters”

I didn’t begin writing for the beauty of it.
I began because she was gone.
Because my wife had died, and I was alone.
And each day, I wrote her a letter.

That’s the confession. Not a craft story.
Not a poetic origin myth.
Just one hand reaching for another
across the canyon of absence.

“I started with writing letters, which was the part that I had actually stopped when I stopped writing.”

At first, it was just survival.
A place to put the sorrow.
To lay it down, letter by letter,
until I could breathe again
without guilt catching in my chest.

“It was that I stopped because I was suddenly here again…”

And something unexpected happened.
I found I could say things in English
that I had never, ever been able to say in German.

This astonished me—
this clarity, this depth
in a language that wasn’t supposed to be mine.

“Actually, I suddenly found that I could write actually in English about things I have never been able to write about in German.”

It wasn’t just about vocabulary.
It was about safety.
German was the language of trauma,
the language of “be small,”
of bruises and bracing and compliance.

English became a sanctuary.
A soft light through the cracks.

“There is some bracing against German language, which only became apparent when I was less and less subjected to this society.”

I write to find myself again.
Not the version that complied.
Not the version that shrank.
But the one that watched galaxies spiral
and followed the thread
from dark matter
to _Black lives matter_to _human rights matter_to _my life matters._

“That’s what I really like about the creation process… you start at one point and arrive at a completely different outcome.”

Writing, for me, is a canyon.
Wider than I expected.
Deeper than I wanted.
But it’s where I meet myself—
sometimes standing in both selves:
the one who protected,
and the one who is still breaking free.

“Sometimes when I’m triggered I stand with one foot still in the old me… and the one who wants to protect and appease.”

I write myself back to life.
That’s not metaphor.
It’s memory.
It’s method.
It’s me.

And I’m still doing it.

“I have lived a corrupt self… I’m still trying to find my footing… And sometimes I need to write and write and write until I’ve circled so deeply down that I finally distilled what I was looking for.”

This is why I write.
Because in writing, I can say
the unsayable.
I can grieve,
rebuild,
reclaim.

And sometimes,
I can even love again.

#meetthewriter Day 2: PEEK

✨What is on your desk? Tell us, or show us, or both! If you don’t write in a fixed location feel free to share a picture of your favourite café, or the tree you like to sit beneath etc. ✨

PEEK: ✨What is on your desk?✨ another Monty Story

It starts like it always does.

I sit down at the table.

The room hums its usual background noise: fridge breathing, the faint click of a heating pipe settling into the afternoon. Light slides in through the garden window—angled, a little too sharp for this time of day.

This table has seen everything. It came from Berlin, early 1900s, passed to my mother from a friend when she dissolved her house. A real Erbstück. Heavy. Unbending. Four meters when extended. It was never meant to be a desk, but here I am, as always, writing with my back to the wall and my eyes on the garden. That positioning isn’t a preference—it’s the only way I can write. Sightlines matter when you’ve learned the hard way where danger enters.

On the surface, the objects don’t change: Fountain pen. Ballpoint. Body thermometer. A pack of Tempo tissues. Nail file. Nail scissors. My iMac. Two large external drives, always humming. USB extensions. A tangle of cables. A cold mug. A hot thermos. Sometimes a cookbook. Always my phone. Always my wallet. And always, two or three of Monty’s sausages—still in their plastic, lined up like a quiet bribe.

Today starts the same as any other. Until it doesn’t.

Monty appears without sound, as he does. He jumps up, pads across the table like it’s his own—which, of course, it is. I reach for my mug. Look away for a second.

That’s when I hear the keystrokes.

Soft. Accidental. But not random.

I turn back. His paw is on the keyboard. Just once. Press, release. Walk. Pause. Sit.

I glance at the screen.

The document I’d been working on has changed. The last line is mine—mostly. But something’s… off.

Below it, three new words blink at me.

"when. was. end."

That’s not something I wrote. But it’s there. Tidy. Punctuated.

I scroll up. My autosave settings are on, but the timestamp is wrong. Last modified: 3:17 AM

I wasn’t awake at 3:17 AM. At least, I don’t remember being.

Monty blinks once. Settles down. The sausage wrappers crinkle as he brushes past them.

The cursor waits. Blinking.

A question. A warning. A sentence waiting to be finished.

Outside, the wind changes.

I don’t type. Not yet.

#meetthewriter Day 3: RHYTHM:

Writing Myself Back into Being at all times

In the beginning, I wrote mostly in the evenings and deep into the night. It was a way of speaking to my late wife—telling her everything that had unsettled me, everything that had happened. My thoughts spilled in a stream of consciousness, raw and unfiltered.

Over time, especially after beginning systemic coaching and embracing my non-binary identity, something shifted. The writing became a kind of excavation. Memories I thought were lost—buried beneath decades of silence—began to stir. For most of my life, my past had felt like a blank page. My psyche had carefully locked away every hurt, every trauma. I couldn’t access those memories, not even to tell my own story. I relied on the scattered traces that remained: fragments from written records, the rare photograph, and careful research. I strung together a life from the outside in.

Then, in 2021, something cracked open. Memories from childhood began surfacing again—vivid, detailed, whole. I started writing whenever they appeared, no matter where I was. I carried my little red X47 notebook everywhere. In my 20s and 30s, I often wrote in pubs and coffee shops, drawn to the hum of human presence. Even if I felt alone inside, the background bustle offered a kind of imagined belonging.

Writing helped me make sense. It still helps me make sense.

By the summer of 2021, I’d begun writing not just when memories arose, but also intentionally—especially in the evenings. I started keeping a self-inventory: Energy. Contentment. Calmness. Gratitude. Happiness. Later, I added a morning reflection too. Over time, this rhythm became a daily practice.

In 2022, my coach said something that still resonates deeply:

"You are writing yourself back into your life."

And truly, I was. I wrote my way chronologically through memory—from age 3 to 17½, when the car accident happened that eventually took my father's life ten days later. My coach co-read my journals for over a year because so many memories emerged, it took the full hour just to summarize the week’s revelations.

Since then I have not only excavated at least 80% of my memories, but also 100% of my true inner Self once exiled.

These days, I often dictate my thoughts. I speak my stream of consciousness into my watch, and with how accurate transcription has become, it's eased the strain on my arms and wrists. Being on sick leave, I write—or record—whenever I have time.

And when Monty, my cat, curls up behind me and warms my lower back, that’s usually in the evening. That’s when writing feels like comfort, like presence.

Answering these questions ✨When do you write? Are you an early bird? A tea break writer? A night owl?✨ by

#meetthewriter Day 4: SEASON/SEASONALITY

✨ What do you love about writing in this particular season (of the year, or of your life)? Which is your favourite season for writing?✨

Season of Becoming

If I must name a season,
let it not be spring or fall,
but the slow unfurling of dignity—
a thawing truth beneath the frost.

Not petals blooming,
but voices rising.
Not golden leaves drifting,
but memory returning—
like breath,
like home.

This is the season of Freedom,
of Justice ripening like fruit
no longer forbidden.
Of Dignity worn not as armor,
but as skin I finally recognize.

I write not by the light
of a sun or moon,
but by the pulse of connection,
by the heat of reckoning,
by the tender weight of being seen.

This is the season
of excavating silence,
of replacing shame
with shared humanity.

My pen—
a bridge.
My voice—
a flame.
My words—
a hand, reaching.

And maybe that’s the season
I’ve waited for all along.

#meetthewriter Day 5: PARAPHERNALIA

✨What essentials do you like to have around you as you write? (Pens, notebooks, lucky feathers etc)✨

Paraphernalia—A Monty Story

Ah, allow me to introduce myself—Monty, dignified feline companion and keeper of all things cozy. You see, my hooman—Jay, as they’re known to the two-legged folk—has a curious ritual each day. They settle in, sometimes typing, sometimes writing by hand, and always surrounded by what I, with great affection, call their paraphernalia.

Now, let me tell you, this isn’t just any hooman with a Bic and a sticky note. No, no. Jay writes with elegance and intent. Their fountain pen? A Pilot Capless, sleek and clicky like a small sword. The ink—never blue, heavens no!—but iridescent green or violet, like beetle wings or twilight on water. In recent times, green has taken center stage, but in the beginning, it was violet, always violet. I’ve watched them shudder at blue ink as if it were an offense to the soul.

There’s a redleather notebook too, clever and reusable, with swappable pages that shift like the tides. When inspiration flickers, Jay simply tucks in a new sheet and lets the ink flow. And oh, the paper clips! Not those clunky metal monsters—these are delicate slivers of gold, silver, and copper, thin as whispers, more like bookmarks than binders. They shimmer gently, marking where ideas begin to bloom.

And the surroundings? Always, always a sightline out—be it to garden, street, or skyline. Jay doesn’t need a fortress of walls. Just that glimpse beyond. A view where the world breathes back. That’s why, when we fly (yes, I am an experienced airline passenger in my dreams) Jay claims the window seat every time. No view? No vibe.

Now, if you were to peek in on us at home, you’d see the full set: pen, ink, special notebook, mystical clips, and one last essential—a fleece blanket. Always. Draped across their legs or shoulders, like a soft exhale. And me? I’m nestled right there too. The unofficial but very essential cat-shaped muse.

So, tell me—what do you keep close when you create?

#meetthewriter Day 6: ZONE

✨What helps you get in the writing zone? ✨

When I start writing like doing anything I emerge into to flow. It is a reminiscence of my trauma response of at least functioning at 200% to do that 80-150 hours a week was only possible with hyper concentration and extrem focus. Sit down Focus on what’s at hand concentrate and do. That I hadn’t been able to let go yet. It doesn’t matter where or when. Drop down under the surface of the trinkend choppy wavy water and get still, focus, sink deeper even, write.

It begins not with ease, but with edge—
a practiced plunge beneath the noise.
The surface splinters: memory, motion,
the clatter of days I survived by sharpening
every thought into a blade.

I used to live at 200%,
a fire flickering inside my bones—
task after task, hour after hour,
the blur of 80 to 150 each week,
just to prove I could still stand.
Still do.

So now, when I sit to write,
it isn’t peace that meets me first.
It’s the pulse of old survival,
that ancient rhythm of do now, feel later.

Hyperfocus, like muscle memory,
drags me under the waves.

And here, in this deep,
below the trinket-sparkle chaos of surface life,
I’ve found something else:
Stillness.

The quiet hum of story.
The breath I never had time to take.

I sink,
not to drown,
but to remember.
Not the pain—
Yet the power I built from it.

And in this place,
the words begin.
Focused.
Unflinching.
Free

#meetthewriter Day 7– THEMES

✨“What threads return, weaving the same music through every page?”✨

I write from the canyon’s hush—not the echo, but the silence before it forms.

🗝 Trauma & Healing

I descend into the chasm of memory,
where the walls speak in sediment and bone.
My Canyon Model is no map,
but a lantern carved from lived pain,
lighting the climb back up with grace.

🦁 Resilience & Self-Compassion

Each scar is a stanza in my skin—
not an end, but a beginning line.
I do not erase—I trace.
Gold in the fracture. Song in the ruin.

🔍 Identity & Justice

I sift stories from rubble,
unearthing names, structures, systems.
Personal becomes political in the telling—
language as both seed and sledgehammer.

🍽️ Culinary Art & Illustration

In my kitchen, grief simmers beside joy.
Every recipe is a spell,
every bite a bookmark in time.
Flavors speak where words fall short.

📝 Prompts & Intentions

I offer questions like open doors,
affirmations like warm stones in your pocket.
Come sit beside me.
Let’s write the storm,
then the stillness that follows.

Between the lines, you’ll find other offerings—
traveler’s notes, cultural mirrors, quiet marvels.
Each one an invitation to see,
to taste,
to remember who we are becoming.

#meetthewriter Day 8: ICON

✨Of all the books in the world which would you love to have written, and why? ✨

When asked which book I wish I had written, I find I can’t point to just one. The question lingers like a soft echo, not because I don’t know what moved me, but because I’ve been moved by more than one current. Three books came to mind, each tied not just to memory, but to meaning.

Deutschstunde by Siegfried Lenz was required reading in school, yet it stayed with me long after the assignments were done. Only recently did I realize why. It reads, in many ways, like a memoir of a life shaped by duty and silence, a life marked by the weight of imposed expectations. It held up a mirror—one I didn’t want to look into then, but which now feels impossibly familiar. It is a story about obedience, but also about resistance. And in some ways, it told a version of my story before I had the words for it.

Then there’s Siddhartha by the congenial Hermann Hesse, also part of the curriculum, yet completely different. It speaks of a journey toward kindness, compassion, justice—not as goals, but as ways of being. It lives in quiet defiance of the world that Deutschstunde depicts. Where one enforces order, the other invites understanding. I recognize myself in that river of seeking, in the refusal to settle for inherited truths, in the longing to live gently but fiercely for what is just.

And then, Musashiby Eiji Yoshikawa. Read for leisure. The book has deepened my love for high class knives and nudged me to study Japanese for three semesters—not for grades, but for connection. It weaves together the tension of the other two: the necessity of discipline, the pull of mastery, the solitude of choosing one’s own path. Musashi does not reject the world’s harshness, but he refines it, contains it, directs it. His sword, though sharp, becomes a tool of clarity. In that way, it reminds me that even words can be weapons—if we wield them with wisdom.

These three books aren’t ones I simply admire. They’ve shaped how I survive, how I write, how I move through the world. If I wish I had written them, it’s only because I recognize myself within them—not as their author, but as someone who has lived their questions. And perhaps, in some way, has begun answering them through a story of my own.

#meetthewriter Day 9: MANTRA

✨What is your writing mantra?✨

Mine are actually four different one‘s I have now for over four years. They have served me well.

May I love and accept myself, just as I am.

„Today is the best day ever.“ that is greeting me in the car and on my trackpad.

„What you think you create, what you feel you attract, what you imagine you become.“ which is written on my iMac.

“Watch your thoughts, they become your words; watch your words, they become your actions; watch your actions, they become your habits; watch your habits, they become your character; watch your character, it becomes your destiny.”

―Lao Tzu

Which is printed on a poster of a Norwegian Fjord Landscape in November with one of Norway‘s highest mountain in the background, snow covered in the almost eternal twilight during November days far up north. Picture by myself.

✨ #meetthewriter Day 10: REVEAL

✨ Where is the most unusual place you have whipped out your notebook to write? ✨

The most unusual place I’ve ever journaled in is also the most unusable place I’ve ever tried to sleep: the Ottawa Jail Hostel.

Years ago, before its modern makeover, it was still raw—bare-bones and eerily true to its 19th-century origins. It wasn’t "cozy" in any way. The cell I stayed in had no privacy, no curtains to soften the lattice doors, no real bed—just a bunk with a mattress and sheets, more symbolic of comfort than the real thing.

And yet… I pulled out my notebook.

There was something haunting about being in a space steeped in so much silence and history. My pen moved slowly, tracing thoughts shaped by cold stone and long shadows. It wasn’t easy writing—but it was unforgettable.

#meetthewriter Day 11: OBJECT

✨ Which single object best represents where you are in your writing life right now? ✨

A compass.

Not a map. Not a lantern. A compass—small, quiet, and deeply personal.

Right now, my writing is all about direction, not destination. I’m not trying to arrive anywhere fast. I’m listening for what feels aligned—following the magnetic pull of a sentence that feels honest, or an idea that stirs something beneath the surface.

I’m not charting grand outlines or chasing polished outcomes. I’m orienting. Recalibrating. Turning the page with intention, even if I’m not sure where it leads. My writing is my way of staying found in a world that constantly shifts.

And when I drift off course—which I do—my writing brings me back.

#meetthewriter Day 12: CURIOSITY

✨Tell us something not a lot of people know about you that’s connected to your writing. ✨

Not many people know that English—the language I now write in almost exclusively—was once the one I failed.

There was a time when I loved English the way a child loves a path winding through the woods—curious, eager, unafraid. In the 1970s, my parents and I wandered across England: the Lake District, Kent, Cornwall, the Isle of Man. We took ferries, followed narrow country roads, listened to rain tapping on cottage windows. Along the way, I fell for the music of the English language—its cadence, its quiet lilt, the way it felt like both map and mystery.

When I started school, English quickly became one of my strongest subjects. I felt at home there. But then came high school, and with it, a long detour. Three teachers, one after the other—each with a rigid idea of what good writing should be, and sharper still, what a girl should be. Their feedback didn’t just correct grammar; it corrected me. Not just the words I wrote, but the way I stood in the world.

I failed in both English and German. Not for lack of language, but for lack of permission to be who I was.

So I sought shelter in French, a language that gave me space to breathe. I did my diploma in it, moved forward. German remained necessary—and eventually, I found one teacher, a woman, who didn’t try to reshape me. She recognized the voice already present in me and welcomed it. Under her care, I flourished. I remembered what it felt like to be seen without distortion.

But English... that door had closed. My last grade was a fail. A 6 in the German system—an F elsewhere. I abandoned it entirely in 11th grade, convinced it was a lost cause.

And yet.

Years later, studying economics, I realized English was no longer optional. Even in 1987, at a German university, the world demanded it. I needed to be a success, and my mother did everything necessary to make that happen. She sent me to King’s College of Further Education in Bournemouth for a four-week intensive course.

There, something shifted again.

The teachers were warm. My landlady was luminous. And I made a deliberate choice: to speak with everyone but the other German students. I immersed myself. English stopped being a gatekeeper and became a garden again.

From that point on, I read mostly in English. I traveled more—to Canada, the US, other places where English became the shared bridge between strangers. Slowly, steadily, it wove itself back into my life—not as a burden, but as a companion.

If someone had told me in 1984 that one day I would write almost exclusively in English, I would have laughed. Or cried. Or both. And yet, here I am. Writing in the very language that once told me no. Because sometimes, the paths we lose are the ones we were always meant to return to—not by force, but by choice. By the quiet miracle of finding our voice, again and again.

#meetthewriter Day 13: SUPPORT

✨ Where do you get support for your writing? Which communities do you belong to—and what difference does that make? ✨

The truth is—I haven’t sought support for my writing.

Not directly.

What I’ve sought is support for myself—for my life, my mental health, my healing. And that, indirectly but profoundly, has supported my writing.

For the past five years, my greatest source of support has been my systemic coach. Her presence invited reflection, not direction. Much like the prompts from @Elizabeth Gilbert ’s Letters of Love, which stirred something tender and steady in me—an inner listening.

And when it comes to writing itself, I have mostly walked alone.

Books, essays, audiobooks—yes. Voices on the page that reached into me. But not people in my life.

Not community, at least not in the conventional sense.

I've written more than five million words over the past five years, not because someone urged me to, but because I had to write myself back into life.

Still—there have been sparks.

The Letter of Love community gave me prompts that led to truth-telling.

@Gloria Horton-Young , in these past six months, has been a quiet revolution in my writing life. Her voice—so bold, so specific—gave me permission to experiment, to ask, What else is possible? Her writing invited me to play with form, with tone, with honesty.

#meetthewriter Day 14: PATH

✨ What is your dream for your writing life? What are you going to commit to in the next 6-12 months to help bring that dream to life?✨

This path?

It’s not paved.
It’s splintered floorboards and half-filled boxes,
echoes of a house that won’t be mine
by the turn of the year.

There’s dust in the air,
and maybe grief.
And still—
I dream.

Of writing that goes deeper.
Of a Canyon Model
that doesn’t just explain,
but sings.

Of poems I might not just hoard,
and gather into a spine,
hold out like an offering.

And here’s the truth:
the next six months
might unravel me.

So my promise isn’t to finish the book.
It’s to stay in motion.
To write when I can,
how I can.

To stay curious,
keep the spark alive—
even if it’s small,
even if I’m writing between
the packing tape and the leaving.

That’s the dream,
for now:
not to stop.

#meetthewriter Day 15: TRIO

✨ Which three words best sum up the kind of writer you want to be known as?And where can we find more of your words? ✨

Diverse. Canyon. Poet.

• Diverse—because I write across forms, genres, and emotions, and because multiplicity lives at the core of who I am.

• Canyon—because I believe in depth, in echoes, in the long shadow between silence and sound. My writing carves itself slowly, shaped by time and experience.

• Poet—because even in prose, I seek rhythm, truth, and tenderness. My words want to feel—not just inform, but transform.

You can find more of my writing here on Substack

at Wild Lion*esses Pride from Jay—a space where language is exploration, reflection, and resistance all at once

and my creations at Wild Lion*esses Lookout 2 Create

---

Thank you for your interest in getting to know me.

Your kindness and generosity truly make a difference. Together, we’re creating a space of reflection, creativity, and connection, and I’m grateful you’re part of this journey.

Would you be willing to support my work by subscribing or contributing? It would mean so much to me.

Your presence here means the world. Creating art, testing recipes, and sharing these reflections is a labor of love, a way to connect, a lifeline. But, as you know, love doesn't pay the rent, or replace a car.

Since January 2024, my mental health has forced me onto sick leave, leaving Monty and me with a mere €350 a month. And, as I shared in 'When Healing Means Losing Everything,' the reality is, this isn't sustainable.

When Healing Means Losing Everything

By the end of 2025, I face losing my home and my car, forced to leave a country that no longer feels like home. I'm building a new life, a new beginning, and your support could be the bridge.

If my words, art, or recipes have touched you, if you believe in creating spaces of honest reflection, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your contribution directly fuels this work, allows me to keep sharing, and helps me build a future.

I know times are tight. If a monthly subscription isn't feasible, a one-time tip, even the price of a coffee or a bag of cat food for Monty, makes a difference. You can contribute here.

Buy Cat food for Monty

And, if you're looking to collaborate, I'm also open to working with you.

My skills extend beyond this space. I offer trauma-informed, bilingual (EN/DE) editing, logo and illustration work, photo editing, and slogan support. I'm also available for DEI consulting, copywriting, personal assistance, embodiment coaching, cooking, baking, bartending, hosting, concierge services, travel management, systemic conversation facilitation, photography, or even a whimsical weather frog person. If you know of any opportunities in these areas, please pass my name along. You can see more of my work here:

Hi There! I am Monty, to my friends and Sir Montgomery in formal situations. Very glad to make your acquaintance. Will you become part of Jay’s and me pride? I’d really love that, then you can call me Monty.