For some, pinpointing their passion and what set them off to start their journey is easy, for others it can be difficult, but still, there was probably a clear direction. Some discover their passion early in life, some are late bloomers and float through learning more about themselves before they learn what they were meant to do. For me it was a little bit of both. Reading had always been an escape for me. I remember sitting with my mom’s books and pretending to read them just as I saw her sit on the brown and flowered sofa, cigarette in her mouth, book on her lap, coffee on the table beside her. I’d take this little toy cash register and gently tap the keys so it sounded like a typewriter. “I’m writing my books,” I would exclaim, vigorously making sure to keep typing and checking over my ‘work’.
Writing stayed with me for a long time. I journaled, but hated English assignments; I wrote poems, but despised being told what one meant by my teacher. I knew what I felt and being told what a poem meant felt like a betrayal not only to me, but also to the author, to the poet.
As I said, reading was my escape. It demanded nothing from me but my time; time of which was all I had growing up. Moving around and being the eccentric person I was at such an early age, friends were few and far between. It was ok though. Books didn’t let me down and books didn’t ask too many questions about my life and my past. They were just the right amount of noise for my over cluttered brain.
I knew I needed to write, always wanted to be an author, but it wasn’t until I was 30 that I started to feel my passion well too high to be ignored. It was after my daughters were born and I felt that tug; that need. It literally would keep me up at night, my mind wandering to stories, life experiences, and plot lines. I questioned if what I wrote would even be needed, be welcomed, be adding to the culture of literature. I felt inept to start this journey but knew there was nothing else I could do but succumb to this need, this desire, this burning in my soul.
It’s soul searching and cleansing for me. It soothes the demons that threaten to rear their ugly heads again and again. They stay tamed when fed with words. It staves off my loneliness, it keeps my mind from the darkness that threatens to overtake. I write because I have to share what aches my soul.
One thought on “Why I Write”
Loved the image of little you writing your stories on a toy cash register. Although I didn’t write until later in life I loved reading from a very young age. There were always books in the house. Birthday presents were almost always books. This journey of yours took me back to my childhood and to remember the good times.