Why I write

On my first day of English 231 I read an essay by Joan Didion, wherein she states, "Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I am thinking..." Immediate identification with that thought started my mind to spin in search of the source of my own desire to write.

I enjoy writing. I enjoy the physical act of putting a pen to paper. I own two fountain pens and I delight in watching the ink trace across the page forming words. Words grow to sentences, outlining thoughts. These thoughts at times take on a life of their own but more often than not these thoughts are me, borne out of a vivid realization that I have something to say.

I am not the brightest, smartest, wittiest, most original or intelligent of aspiring writers. But I do have things to say. I have thoughts and feelings to express. I have lived five and a half decades of experiences and emotions and observations. I have survived, grown, even prospered in spite of some of life's harshest circumstances.

But more compelling than these thoughts, it is an overarching fear that pushes me. Sometimes I am afraid of what I might not get to say. Giving a voice to that fear and looking at the source of it brings up my need to be heard.

In my experience, the right words will not come at the right time. Closer to the truth is my seeming gift for saying the exact wrong thing at precisely the worst moment. This inability to give verbal life to emotion fuels my need to write.

I'll never tell that redhead just how the blue of her eyes and coppery wisps teased by the wind across her face moved me; it would be inappropriate. I don't always have the words to tell my son just how proud I am of the man he has become; our relationship is so strained. I will never be able to share the regrets of our failed marriage with "The woman who plucks the strings of my heart..." to this day.

And so, until I learn to speak from the heart I will allow my pen speak for me.