Lately, I find myself asking, “Why do I want to write?”
I can (as I know my mom and do!) remember being around 7 years old with my first “diary”. I of course didn’t have many juicy entries at that young age, a little childish complaining and some stories. Though I now confess openly, there was one that was not mine. I had proudly brought out my newly written story to show off to mom and dad. It was only a moment after mom handed the story over to dad for him to read, when he blurted out, “You didn’t write this! I just read this in an Archie comic book!” While I don’t recall purposely copying the idea, I had clearly done something wrong; hence the lecture on plagarism that followed!
Both of my parents were avid readers and surely had wanted to pass that along, so I had always been surrounded by words. I had discovered early on that my mom was a writer. So, perhaps, this is likely how the writing bug seemed to find me. I always kept “diaries” and was forever trying to write poems. I wrote on my mom’s old typewriter, in my journals, later on the computer and, then, in what became “The Old Blue Binder”. I constantly wrote, and loved to share my pieces with close friends. As I became a teenager, and began to walk the dark and twisting path that became my youth, my writing got darker and full of pain. That was the time when I realized that I, one day, wanted to share my words with many others; at that time hoping to reach other teens that were dealing with depression or drug/alcohol issues. I wanted to help others realize that they were not alone in their emotions, someone else out there DID have feelings like their own.
I have always used writing to sort through my emotions. I used it to release feelings that likely would come out no other way. There have been times where I wrote to say to another that which my mouth could not seem to vocalize. For the most part, I have written my way through the darkest times of my life, not seeming to have words when life was good.
Over the years, I have let both my reading and writing fall to the side. Life has gotten in the way of two of my favorite things to do. I was living and learning. Learning brought me back to the books, and I as began to grow, I began to find the desire to write about what I have been and still am learning. My mom, as I have mentioned, is also a huge contributor to my attempt at picking up the pen (or keyboard!) again. Having known all these years, her desire and yearning to become an author; she is now realizing that dream. It is inspiring! (Of course, there’s that, and then there is her constant nagging about it!! Just kidding mom!)
As I am sitting here writing this, I realize the answer to my question is right there in front of me. Words are a part of me. They are inside the blood, the energy, the heart and soul of me. I have a desire inside of me that needs to write. There are words I must get out. Things I am intended to say. So, I guess that I am writing because, honestly, how could I not?