<a href="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/reading.jpg"><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-388" title="reading" src="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/reading.jpg" alt="" width="549" height="410" /></a>
<h5 style="padding-left: 270px;">Signing books at Powell's (photo by Jason Berg)</h5>
I love stories. Especially stories that are personal and true. <strong>I have always loved the power of written words to say something important about who someone is and what they think and feel.</strong> I love putting my thoughts and ideas out here, at Halfway to Normal, and connecting with so many of you in this space.

But last night I was reminded that nothing beats the power of human-to-human interaction. <strong>More specifically, nothing beats the power of words being shared in the flesh.</strong>

I was at Powell's Books in Portland, reading along with half a dozen other women whose stories are included in the anthology <a href="http://www.askmeaboutmydivorce.com/"><em>Ask Me About My Divorce: Women Open Up About Moving On</em></a>. The book was published about a month ago, and in the weeks leading up to the reading, I eagerly "got to know" the women I would be meeting in Portland. We exchanged emails as a group, making plans for dinner before the reading and drinks after. We connected on Facebook, and wrote on one another's walls. And, of course, we read our book.
<h4>What I can know from reading your story</h4>
As soon as my copies of the book arrived, I turned to the table of contents, found a pencil, and carefully made a small mark next to the names of the women who would be in Portland: Candace, Samantha, Sue, Julie, Elizabeth and Susan.

Then I turned to their stories and carefully read them, one by one.

Stories set in Juno, Santa Fe, and New York. Stories of sexual identity and isolation, of mental illness, abuse, and crushed dreams. And stories of redefinition and hope, of heaviness being lifted and eyes being opened. Stories that made me smile and even laugh aloud.

<strong>When I finished reading their words, I felt like I really knew these women, and I imagined them reading my essay and knowing me.</strong> And we certainly <em>did</em> know something about each other. In some ways, we knew each other in ways that are even deeper than how I know many of my friends. We leapt past the pleasantries and small talk, directly into the fray. <strong>They were no longer strangers, even though we had not yet met.</strong>
<h4>Connecting the words to the very real person</h4>
Here's what I expected about meeting these women in person: I would simply have some visuals and texture to put with what I already knew. <strong>What I <em>didn't</em> expect was the deep-gut feelings I had as I listened to them read their words—the very same words they had written and I had already poured over.</strong>

What was so different, if not the actual words and the course of the story itself?

Each woman, very much human, standing there vulnerable before us. The particular way she held herself. The tone of her voice. The expression in her eyes. A second husband, close friend, or brother in the audience.

<strong>Each very real, painful and joyful story was connected to a very real person. Each story and each woman was tied to the next through a common experience, yet completely herself.</strong>

After we all read, after answering questions from the audience and signing their books, we sat around a table in Powell's and signed one another's copies. <strong>In part, I felt like we were high school seniors signing yearbooks—we had shared a big moment, and were now saying our goodbyes.</strong> We were full of promise and the future, and were wishing one another well as we went our separate ways.

But it was very different from that too, of course. We are older, and much more seasoned. We're like a military unit that just finished a tour of duty. At the same time, we had just met that evening, and only spent a few hours together. Through our divorces, we've experienced something similar, but not together, really.

<strong>There really isn't an accurate simile. As always, we can only do our best, searching for words that come closest to describing what we've experienced.</strong>

"It was wonderful to read your words. It was even more wonderful to hear you read them," I wrote in their books, and then signed my name.