One must have water to flourish, to survive.  Storytimers are the water behind the stories you’ll find highlighted and written on this blog: they are the people who have purchased the books, read the books, come to the signings, contemplated the blogs.  They not only love to read, the love stories that challenge them and make them think.  They are the readers of the stories that matter—the blogs, and the books—and I want every Storytimer to know that what you feel and what you have to say matters too.

Under each book’s title, you will find a “Storytimer’s Chatter” page which contains the messages/reviews/comments sent to me from readers.  Some of my Storytimers have asked to have their names removed from their comments before being posted; in these instances, the words “A Storytimer” have been put after the quote.

Thank you for being Storytimers – this is a letter I wrote especially for you.

..

Dear Storytimer,

It was a cold Winter afternoon in Middle Tennessee a decade or so ago. There I was walking with an armful of books and a heart full of hope into a small room in the local library. I was to be on a panel with other authors, read an excerpt from one of my books, tell a little bit of my story, and sign some books. I was overdressed for the location–my skirt suit and heels looked professional, but this was a small-town library where the chances of anyone knowing my name were slim to none. Still, I put up a poster and set out stacks of my books. At that time, there were, maybe, five or six published. I’d spent the previous two days agonizing on which book and chapter to read from. I’d written an entire speech that I worked hard to memorize. Maybe it was a small-town library for an event that maybe no one would show up for… but I wasn’t looking for a crowd. I wasn’t preparing for a crowd.

I was anxiously preparing for you.

By this time, I’d spoken to larger audiences in larger venues–college campuses, literary festivals, churches, and book clubs–and those engagements taught me something very important. At least one of you come. The one who does might not know she’s a Storytimer yet — but a Storytimer isn’t just someone who has read my books. A Storytimer is someone whose story aches for freedom, who harbors fears they can barely name themselves, who searches in life’s nooks and crannies for hope. Storytimers are kindred spirits drawn together by a common thread. Sometimes that thread is a spark of recognition, an “I-get-you” awareness. Other times, that thread is more of a whisper, a feeling that can’t quite be named but is sensed, a dream that stirs when stories are read or a “hey there” is offered. Storytimers are, in short, friends. I go into every signing, every speaking opportunity, every event, actively seeking Storytimers. Because everyone that enters is not necessarily a Storytimer.

On this day, I was busying myself, sitting behind the table, chatting with one or two people when a young woman walked in carrying a plastic bag. Obviously nervous, she bypassed all of the other authors’ tables and approached mine. I watched from the corner of my eye as she flipped one book, then another, over to read the back. I smiled at her, said hello.

And I knew.

This was a Storytimer. One that seemed nervous, one that felt very familiar.

I told her that I was about to speak and invited her to stay. She said, “Oh, I – I have to get these home,” pointing to the bag of groceries. I nodded. And she left. As I watched her leave, my heart dropped. Because I recognized something in her. Long moments passed; I was about to be introduced to speak when I heard, “Tiffini, she’s back.” I turned around and there she was again. Without thinking, I grabbed a couple of books and sat down beside her. Another author sat in front of us, and I saw him tilt his head, listening, as I said, “I’m really glad you came back. I wanted to let you know – if you’d like a book, any of them, you can have one for free.”

The woman said, “Really? Oh–“

“Do you know which one you’d like?”

“Can I think about it? It’s an important decision.”

“Of course.” I smiled at her. And did the speech. My speech was my story. By the end, I saw the woman crying. She approached the table afterwards and I smiled again at her. She said, “Can I have Broken?” I signed it for her and gave her a card with my email address, invited her to let me know what she thought. I signed and sold other books that day… but she was the Storytimer who showed up; she was the reason I was there.

Another year, I worked as a receptionist for a trucking company (which was, surprisingly, kind of fun because I was able to train the new hires about the company). This is important to note: I had not told anyone about the writing at this job. I walked to the break room one day and there was a woman I did not know also in there. She kept looking at me oddly, almost as though she were angry. She said, “Are you Tiffini Johnson?”

Taken aback, and somewhat nervous because she seemed angry, I nodded. “Yes. Hi.”

“Did you write ‘The Character’?”

Alert now, cautious, I nodded. “Yes Have you read it?”

She shook her head, then nodded. “Yes.” Before I could think of anything to say, she walked closer, said, “There’s no way you could have written that book unless you were raped too.”

My face turned red. But I nodded, just barely inclined my head. She nodded and angrily threw a napkin in the trashcan. Without another word, she walked away. I did not know her name. I did not know what department she worked in. I did not know anything about her. But she knew me – in fact, she knew key things about me – because she’d read one of the most personal stories I’ve written. Later, I asked around to see if I could find her name; when I got it, I emailed her, invited her to tell me her story. She was a Storytimer.

I stood in front a couple hundred people at a college campus in Memphis once. It was the first event where there were more than a hundred people watching. But there was a really big problem. I was supposed to be sharing my story, I was supposed to be sharing what happened to me… but I’d never been able to say the word rape. When I reached a part in my speech where I would normally have said, “I was hurt,” I paused. My watery blue eyes went from one side of the auditorium to the other. You were all silent, patiently waiting. I was so, so scared. Shame feels like hot acid running through my insides. I was ashamed, and I truly didn’t think I could use the word rape. But, as I looked around the room, numbers started appearing in my head. Statistics. I knew the statistics. And statistics told me that, in this room where at least a hundred of us were gathered together, there was someone who had experienced the same thing I had.

You were there.

I knew you were there.

And, if I said, “I was hurt,” instead of “I was raped,” would you know what I mean? What if you misunderstood me? “Hurt” could mean so many things. I wanted you to know that you are not alone. I wanted you to know someone truly does understand. The only way to show you that you weren’t crazy, that you weren’t alone, that, while I’ll never know the exact set of circumstances that made your pain so unbearable for you because I wasn’t raised in your home, taught what you were taught, given the support (or lack thereof) you had, we were both violated. I wanted you to be free. I wanted you to feel hope: if someone else went through what I went through, then maybe there is light at the end of this dark tunnel. So, my hands clenched into fists, clinging to the illusion of control, and my lips moved soundlessly. I stuttered over it: “I was r–r-raped.” And, as soon as I said the word in front of you, the tears spilled. You saw me hurting.

And you held me.

I went home that day and attacked the word “rape” by studying it. I traced it all the way back to its very origin. In the late 14th century, this word was rapen, which means “to seize or abduct.” Let that sink in for a moment. To seize or abduct. That word is linked to the Latin word rapere, which means to seize or carry off by force. In other words, the original meaning of the word was to steal something, to seize something by force. It, then, felt true. When one of you asked me later was it rape, what happened to me? I’d respond with, do you feel that something was stolen from you? You nodded, crying.

And I held you.

I read, save and respond to every e-mail anyone sends me. Sometimes I read the reviews on Amazon and other places — because the notes from you matter to my life. The thing is: you see me. Reading stories that are so personal I cannot read most of them cover to cover, you see the parts of me that are broken, dirty, shameful…and, yet, you don’t see me as broken, dirty, shameful. Some of you have come to an event, signed up for Chapter Chats, participated in a workshop, sent me an e-mail, or left a review – you’ve found ways to share your story with me. Some of you have followed along for years. Some of you have read all of the books. You’ve watched my personal story transform from the raw and unpolished memories written almost in diary-style in The Character and Broken to seeing the possibility of love and dreams even within the trauma in Me, meeting the real-life homeless man who inspired joy in me as a character in Sing Me Home, to watching as I bled my way through Haven, talking about “the little girl” for the first time to conversations about forgiveness in Remember the Nightingale before, most recently, you’ve watched as I’ve held up a mirror to society to say, “see what complicity is costing you?” in Whisperroot.

You’ve journeyed with me a long way.

Every word on every page is a torn piece of my heart you’ve gathered and held. You know my secrets. You know my fears. You know my joys.

When I was little, I’d practice my autograph. I imagined sitting at a table happily signing lots and lots of books for you. But I didn’t know that you’d become Storytimers, kindred spirits who take comfort and find oxygen through these stories. You are literally part of the realization of my most deep-seated dream. Not of being an author. Not of appearing on best-selling lists. Not of selling a million books. No. You are part of a realization of a much more important dream: that of being seen, of being heard, of being understood and accepted. That’s what the little girl practicing her autograph never imagined. And, yet, you’ve done more than hold the stories. You’ve helped me build bridges and form connections. That’s what friends do: show up in their realness.

Here’s what I want you to know:

If you’re here, you’re here on purpose. Whether you’re a survivor of violence or not, you are a survivor of some sort of trauma: betrayal, loss, grief, the kind of heartbreak you didn’t know how you’d get through. You’ve felt the lightning bolt that divided your life into before and after. The world needs you, and your story. There are billions of people in the world, but only one of them has your exact fingerprint. None of them are you. Without you, the world loses something precious. I lose something precious. Your story matters. It matters to me. It matters to the world.

All of the things I do: The Storynlight Circle, the ashRISE and HERO workshops, the books, Chapter Chats , the speaking and signing events , and the blog posts — these are all doors I’m trying to open to reach all of you. The ones of you who love to read, those of you who want to learn, the ones who are ready for 1:1 coaching, and the ones who are just curious. Wherever you are on your journey, I’ll walk beside you; I’ll listen. I truly care. I truly see, hear and understand.

I am so thankful you are here. Healing happens when we can imagine a place that’s different from where we are today. Healing happens when we remember how hard we’ve worked to protect ourselves, and how bold and brave we are for reading the hard books, for writing the hard e-mail, for saying words like “rape” or “forgive.” What I need you to know is that my way is nothing more than that: my way. It’s no better than your way. But when we each share our way, darkened paths become illuminated.

Thank you seems sorely inadequate but, as we creep closer to Christmas, I wanted you to know: I see you; I hear you. Your story matters.

Joyfully,