Why do I write? I write, simply enough, because I have to. There are words and stories inside of me that need to be told. They need to be heard. My voice needs to be heard. This is why I began writing
. This is why I continue to write.
I started this blog to write my stories, not so much for others to read, but, as proof I existed, that I was here. Some may not see my stories as their own, they may have different memories. After all, we all live our lives and have our own stories. These are my memories; and I tell them with no apologies. I hope others understand.
I was recently asked why I write. It took me a while to figure out if why I originally began writing
was the same reason I am still writing today. In the meantime, life happened, as they say and the question, believe it or not continued to circulate around in my head constantly. My answer, in some ways, keeps changing, while also remaining the same.
I began blogging to write stories about who I am and about my life. It was meant to be a legacy to my grandchildren about who their Nana
was. About 16 years ago, I divorced my daughters’ father. He alienated them from me, and like most victims of parental alienation
, they do not see or understand this, and the last sixteen years have been a personal kind of hell for me. My youngest daughter
and I have begun building a relationship from now going forward. The past is taboo. My older daughter has not spoken to me in ten years or better. She is married and has two children, my grandchildren, whom I am not allowed to have any interaction with.
That was why I began writing; to leave stories behind for them. Then, one day
when I was depressed and didn’t have a story to write, I decided to write a book review
on the latest book I was reading. Book reviewing
opened up a whole new world that I never knew existed and my blog’s following began growing, and growing. And, although I write a lot of book reviews, it is the personal stories that have found their way into people’s hearts. It seems that life resonates with everyone.
Then, in March of this year – 2011 – I was diagnosed with Essential Thrombocythemia
, and with that diagnosis came a not so good prognosis. In June, I was diagnosed with a second rare blood disorder
, Polycythemia Vera
. Once again, my world was tilted on its axis and I walked around in a daze trying to take it all in and gain a little prospective. I know why I began writing, but all of a sudden, I was trying to figure out why I continue to write.
I love to write and I love telling my stories, and goodness knows, there’s a huge stack -or two- of books I need to read and review for authors. So, right now, that is my focus. I will continue to read and write
my reviews, and when stories happen, I will continue to document my adventures in the hope that my grandchildren will one day read them and know who their Nana was. Because, no matter what anyone else says, the only way to truly know a person is to know their story.
Some extra thoughts:
“We all live in hiding and one way or another each of us conceals pieces of ourselves from the rest of the world. Some people hide because their lives depend on it, others, because they just want someone to care enough to look for them. Some of us hide in hope that someone will love us enough to find us.”
I always post a quote each day, well most days, on my Face book page. Today, instead of using someone else’s, I posted one of my own. It began as I was looking at my ever-growing list of to do’s, knowing that I would never accomplish them all today, that I began to wonder how I would describe a “successful” day. It certainly wasn’t going to have anything to do with my list being completed; I couldn’t seem to focus. After a momentous amount of thought, I came up with my own quote of the day, which I thought I would share with you. “If I have really laughed, I mean really, really laughed, a laugh that filled a portion of my heart and left me smiling, then I will consider my day to have been successful.” I always considered my days to be “successful” if my list was complete but as time has gone by, I now consider a day with laughter to be “successful.” I know that if I have laughed, really laughed, during the day, then that means that there were a few minutes where I did not think of and miss my daughters. There were a few moments where the pain of separation was momentarily forgotten.
I was recently sent an article written by Terry Tempest Williams. The title was “Why I Write”. When I read it, I realized that she captured what lay in my heart, but was unable to put into words. The following is quoted.
“It is just after 4:00 a.m. I was dreaming about Moab, Brooke and I walking around the block just before dawn. I threw a red silk scarf around my shoulders and then I began reciting in my sleep why I write:
I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends. I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure. I write against power and for democracy. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams. I write in a solitude born out of community. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that keep me complacent. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write to migrating birds with the hubris of language. I write as a form of translation. I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy. I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt. I write out of my anger and into my passion. I write from the stillness of night anticipating – always anticipating. I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around. I write because of the humor of our condition as humans. I write because I believe in words. I write because I do not believe in words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in sand. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon: high tide, low tide. I write because it is the way I take long walks. I write as a bow to wilderness. I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness. I write because as a child I spoke a different language. I write with a knife carving each word through the generosity of trees. I write as ritual. I write because I am not employable. I write out of my inconsistencies. I write because then I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as a witness to what I imagine. I write by grace and grit. I write out of indigestion. I write when I am starving. I write when I am full. I write to the dead. I write out-of-body. I write to put food on the table. I write on the other side of procrastination. I write for the children we never had. I write for the love of ideas. I write for the surprise of a sentence. I write with the belief of alchemists. I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short. I write knowing I can be killed by my own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write by accident. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. I keep writing and suddenly, I am overcome by the sheer indulgence, (the madness,) the meaninglessness, the ridiculousness of this list. I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on the way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds – and then I realize, it doesn’t matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass. I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient.
I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.”
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