Why I Write
Let’s put it this way: I write because I must. Sure, I get frustrated, bereft of ideas and self-confidence. Like someone in a bad marriage, I’ve tried to quit writing and move on. I can’t.
They say you can’t give up the things you love. (Well, something like that.) And it’s true: I can say things on paper (Boy, that dates me, doesn’t it?) that I can never say out loud. I can input thoughts/feelings on Word that I could never organize in the middle of a heated discussion. I can’t always be funny or “quick” or articulate in the moment but can often get everything straightened out when I write.
I write because I want to hone my craft. Every time I read a fabulous book by some thirty something author, I want to die and come back as, you guessed it, a writer. I flip the tops of pages, underline, write notes in the margins . . . all so that I can learn from the “masters.”
Writing, like gardening, requires a willingness to change, to get rid of what isn’t working, to create new and fulfilling palettes. Right now, I’m in the midst of planting a new garden on the south side of my house, a restful, peaceful space where I can relax, read, and “see” in the shade.
Similarly, I’m in the midst of expanding my writing style to include a subtle sense of humor just like my dad’s. I’m no Irma Bombeck but a writer with a wry, understated style. Not an easy task, but I’m up for the challenge.
I write because I love to put the puzzle pieces of words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, essays together and, along the way, figure out a little bit more about myself and universal experiences that affect us all.