Why I Write

A good friend came over to my house recently and we were having a quite deep conversation with all of our usual shenanigans interposed, of course. She was sitting leaned back in my spinny chair and I was sitting criss-crossed on my bed. It was early afternoon, the sky was blue in the window behind her, the sun was high. We somehow managed to meander into the topic of the one thing we do when we want to unwind and relax. She immediately answered that she plays the piano; I just as quickly responded that I write. The conversation brought forward a question to my mind and I have been thinking about it a lot since then. Why do I write? As far back as I can remember, I have always seen the world in words. And this is kind of a marvelous concept because what are words really, other than a fantastic human invention. I remember the summers as an eight or nine-year-old kid when I would go biking around my street. The street we lived on back then was a circle. I would race around and around that street rushing faster and faster as the stream of words in my head grew larger and more defined. Eventually, I'd have to run inside to scrawl whatever bits of poem I had stuck in my head into a little composition notebook that I called my "poetry journal". Back then, I was churning out poems as fast as the spokes on my bicycle wheels. Later, the red spiral bound diary that was home to the long, rambling, angst-filled, rage-ridden entries of a pre-teen; that was the only diary I have ever kept. In the middle of the night, after countless hours of tossing and turning with the perfect idea for a story, finally jumping up to turn on a light and find some paper and a pen. Half-crafted novels are sprawled around the house- in notebooks, journals, on loose-leaf, and on my laptop. Days will stretch by when I have the perfect idea for a piece to write but the words won't come out, tormenting me, and it's like trying to squeeze toothpaste out of an already empty tube. Every situation is a metaphor or a beautifully crafted analogy waiting to happen. My mind obsessively strings together words and shuffles and reshuffles them until they fit in perfect order. I believe every experience in life is a mixture of growth and reflection. These two aren't binary, rather they coexist. However, while we are constantly taking in huge sums of data, processing it all, and growing as people, we each have something special we do to reflect. The world is literally swamped with brilliant geniuses of writers; some who have passed away, some who continue to share their magic with us, and others who are yet to be discovered. I am ever inspired by these amazing human beings- my voice is tiny in comparison to theirs. Reading their words teaches me empathy, compassion, courage, and love. Writing my words shows me I care. I believe in the power of words to fuel change and heal souls. Nothing great was ever accomplished by a single voice. Rather, it is the glorious harmony of many voices chanting together that creates magic. I'll toss my voice in there with the rest of them, screaming as loud as I can. Will you join me? Why do you write?