This is why I write…
I write because I like to feel the words as they fall from my mind, flow through my veins and slowly seep out from under my skin…making their way to my eager fingertips and onto the page. The rush is extraordinary.
I write because I get deep cravings to see words form sentences and then watch as those sentences start to create meaning that is bigger than me, that is beyond even what I know and understand. They bind together and help me to grasp – even in some minuscule way – the mess and beauty that life can be.
When I write, my scrambled thoughts unravel mysteries in my soul – I can acknowledge these findings, mark them and file them away for those days when I need to remind myself in case I forget…because Oh, how I forget!
I write to learn who I am, why I am on this earth at this time and place. I pull ideas from the ground, give new life to the joy and make some kind of sense from the tragedies and the pain.
I write for myself. Sometimes it is a purely selfish, cathartic need to bleed my thoughts and feelings out of my soul. This spiritual and mental purge is needed like water and air is needed for my body. Afterwards, I no longer have to think about it anymore…until I need to again.
I write to feed a hunger within me to tell a story – my story, a story that gives life to an abstract idea or even someone else’s story who may not have a voice. I want my words to cause another soul to think a new thought, feel deeper, sigh a heavy sigh or maybe even begin to believe in something (or someone) that they stopped believing in long ago.
My prayer is that God will somehow use the words I haphazardly string together to cause a stirring in someone’s soul, a goose-bump on an arm, tingling on the spine or a spark in a dead heart – maybe even long after my bones have been buried beneath the ground.
And…hopefully, my words will continue a certain transcendent life on their own without me.
This is why I write.