I watched Awakenings for the millionth time the other night.  
Great movie, but it wound up depressing me for more than the 
obvious reasons.  At the end of it all, I was left with the 
sinking feeling that I wasn’t doing anything important with my 
life.

In the movie, Dr. Sayer finds a drug that helps catatonic 
patients regain their awareness of life.  Although the drug’s 
effects aren’t permanent, he gives them their lives back for 
a few months.  He gave hope to families, friends, and everyone 
who suffers from mental illnesses.

And what have I done lately?

I’m just a writer.  I write articles for magazines.  I’ve never 
saved anyone’s life or performed any miracles.

What troubled me most is that, in the film, Dr. Sayer didn’t 
want to work with patients.  He was a researcher, and that’s 
all he wanted to be.  But he was needed elsewhere, so he did 
what he had to do, and that’s where he made all the difference.

It occurred to me that I am smart enough to be a doctor, a 
scientist, a researcher, a surgeon... I never wanted to be any 
of these things.  In fact, the thought of any of them turns my 
stomach.  But what if I’m robbing the world of the potential 
cure for cancer?  What if, in my studies, I might have ended 
the AIDS epidemic, or wiped out Parkinson’s disease? 

If Dr. Sayer hadn’t answered that call-- if he had stayed in his 
lab and continued doing what he “wanted” to do, that miraculous 
summer would never have happened.  Maybe I was being selfish by 
writing.  Maybe I was supposed to be doing something that would 
make a difference in the world.  Improving conditions in South 
Africa.  Finding water on the moon.  Disarming nuclear weapons.

And then I had a thought that finally let me sleep: I would 
never have known about Dr. Sayer if it weren’t for Steven 
Zaillian. 

The screenwriter.

And Steven would never have known about Dr. Sayer if it weren’t 
for Oliver Sacks, who wrote the book.  And Oliver probably 
wouldn’t have known about him if a journalist hadn’t reported 
the story.

All of those people made a difference in my life.  They brought 
the message to my living room.  They told me what Dr. Sayer was 
doing.  They taught me an important lesson about hope and 
determination and never giving up on people.  They inspired me, 
and undoubtedly, countless others. 

If no one reported important medical findings, doctors would be 
in the dark.  Thanks to journalists, an isolated scientist in 
Wyoming who’s been working on isolating a breast cancer gene can 
learn that a team in New Jersey has just found the exact link he 
needs to connect the pieces in his puzzle.  A dying man can find 
out about an experimental drug study that might save his life. 

And, speaking of medical findings, someone had to write all 
those textbooks that were the basis of doctors’ learning.  
Someone had to translate confusing research into language that 
medical students could study, interpret, and improve upon. 

Someone like me, or you.

Writing may be a more humble form of making a difference, but 
it is possibly the most important piece of the puzzle.

You know the saying “if you don’t learn from history, you’re 
bound to repeat it”?  Well, how is anyone supposed to learn 
from history if someone doesn’t write about it?  All of these 
traditions that have been passed down from generation to 
generation... all of the lessons we’ve learned... word-of-mouth 
would never have sufficed.  No, today, we search for records 
of the earliest writers.  When someone uncovers an ancient 
manuscript, it’s a huge triumph, because it helps us unlock the 
secrets of the universe and of our history as human beings.

Even diaries (Anne Frank!)... writers don’t have to believe 
they’re writing for publication to make a difference in this 
world.  Every time we take pen to paper and note what our world 
is like today, we have the potential to change the world.  We 
can further understanding, bring insight, teach, inspire, 
entertain, comfort, and delight.  As we’re writing, none of us 
have any idea of what impact our work may have.  Our words may 
be read in schools two hundred years from now, or they may be 
read tomorrow by a single woman in another country who just 
happened to need those words at that moment.  Or they may only 
be read by our friends and family-- and that’s valuable, too.  
Maybe our siblings or our old best friend will smile today at 
a poem we wrote.  Maybe that smile was the only bright spot in 
that person’s day. 

It’s already happened to me.  I’ve gotten letter after letter 
from people who’ve told me that something I wrote changed their 
lives.  A woman fighting a battle for her disabled son learned 
that she was not alone because of a piece I wrote; she is using 
my writing to help her explain her case to government officials. 
Another woman wrote to tell me my advice helped her to sell her 
first book. 

Even less-obvious forms of writing make a difference.  Press 
releases I’ve written have helped to launch people’s careers.  
That, in turn, has helped someone support his family. 

And I’m not even dead yet.  Lordy, everyone knows that good 
writers are never fully appreciated until after they die.  At 
this rate, I expect there to be a national holiday in my name 
someday!

What we are doing has value.  Every one of us.  Writing is a 
noble profession.  Long after we’re gone, our words can live 
on and carry the message of our lives.  What’s your message?

Be it fiction or nonfiction, books or poems or technical reports 
or reviews or plays or screenplays or greeting cards, you have 
the potential to improve lives.  How many times have you picked 
up a greeting card that helped you express your love to a person 
with whom you can’t always easily communicate?  Or seen a movie 
that took you away to a great fantasy land that helped you 
escape the troubles in your life?  As a child, how many times 
did your mother re-read that same old well-worn book for you, 
animating the voices and teaching you about the value of your 
imagination? 

What we put “out there” in the world should be the best 
representation we can give.  Tell the stories that matter.  
Don’t guard them.  Don’t hide away your own true stories for 
fear of privacy intrusion.  Your own story may be the most 
important gift you can give the world, because it shares the 
wealth of knowledge, insight, and beauty that you’ve earned 
through your time on this planet.  Lend your talents where they 
are needed.  Give a voice to those who can’t express themselves. 
Give clarity to those whose lessons should reach an audience.  
Give your words to children, to teenagers, to adults, to senior 
citizens, to the sick and dying, to the healthy, to the leaders, 
to the poor, to the rich, to the quiet ones and those who will 
shout your message from the rooftops.  Keep giving your gift.  
You WILL make a difference.