Why Do I Write?
I’ve wrestled with this question for a few weeks. And mostly what I can say is that Writing and I have a complicated and tumultuous relationship. I embrace Writing with open arms, but the same does not apply.
There are times Writing loves me, giving me what I need and desire. Words come easy, and my mind feels clear and happy. But other times, Writing betrays me, and often leaves me in the dark.
Those are the times I hate Writing. I hate how it abandons me indefinitely. I hate how it leaves me without notice. Words become cumbersome, and the joy Writing brought me diminishes. I feel cast out, unable to reopen communication with the one that I wish would take notice of me again.
Writing comes to me when it wants me. And I can’t force it. I have to be patient, with the hope that it will return.
But then Writing comes back to me, ready to make amends. It rushes to help fill my notebooks full of words, beautiful and sweet. And I soak it in, basking in the warmth Writing gives me. I feel whole again. I feel ready to supply the world with those wonderful, delicious words.
And for a while, everything feels good. For a while my world feels right.
But I am controlled by Writing, and it will happily remind me of my role. I am just the hand that puts the words to physicality. The ebbs and flows continue to own me. And so my lesson remains to love what I hate. To embrace what easily abandons me. Because without Writing, I’m only living as a shell of a woman. Without writing, my story will never come to be.
I allow myself to be used as an instrument, a pawn in Writing’s life. It serves as a blessing and a curse. Sometimes my days are empty of words, but others, the ones that make this relationship worth it, my pen runs until it’s dry from Writing’s generosity.
Oh, but I know we need each other. Our survival depends on Writing’s gift of words to my creativity. And Writing understands this. That’s why it will never be far away for long.