I'll Tell You Why

Yesterday an online acquaintance posted the following on Facebook:

“Why do I write? 

In the hope that one day after I am gone a young man or woman will read my words and find worth,

And in finding worth in my words, they will in turn bring to life their own words.”

This challenged me to think once again about my own motives. Honestly, I feel selfish in comparison. I write because it is therapeutic  - remedial, even curative. Because something inside me needs to come out, and there’s no other escape route.  Because I discover new, uncharted realms in the process. I write because I must.  Not writing is stifling.  Maybe deadening.

For decades, life’s necessities denied me writing space, or so I thought. Ten years ago, on June 6, 2004, the ice finally broke and I wrote an essay by moonlight between midnight and 2:00 a.m. The next morning, I was awash in afterglow, and gave myself permission to keep going.  Regularly. Prescriptively, like a tonic.

Maybe defining a different kind of space is the real point, the real answer to “why” I write. As words begin to parade across my computer screen, a fissure opens into an expansive place that would otherwise be overlooked: inner space.  As the writing ensues, that crevice closes behind me, and the real world takes a back seat.  It’s like descending to a root cellar where all the good stuff is stored.

While quasi-conscious, creative thoughts and images sail by like leaves floating in an underground stream.  Time stands still, but the current keeps them moving.  In this space I am cleansed and renewed, and can record thoughts and images that were only shadows back where normal life happens.  I am restored somehow as a result.  If a reader happens to also benefit, I consider that a bonus.