I write because it is one of the few things I do well. I’ve written for indifferent and crazy bosses – sometimes simultaneously, often consecutively. I’ve written anonymously for friends for whom a blank computer screen elicits an almost phobic response. I’ve written for myself when I’m all yelled out but still filled with rage and fear – two emotions that for me always show up together. I write so that my truth can be heard and maybe lift up another’s perspective on life. I write for the possibility that if the literary stars align and I’m ‘on my game’, that maybe, just maybe, I can improve a tiny sliver of our messed up world. I write because I am a writer.
“Should I get a Twitter account and follow you?” asked my supportive husband.
“No. Thank you, though. I am more flattered when strangers follow me or comment on a blog entry. Seems like cheating when I know the people.” So, I guess I write for strangers
But I also write for myself. I write because I have to. Because a day without sufficient time with words and my laptop doesn’t feel like a fully-lived day. Even if my ‘screen time’ is filled with just that – staring at a blank screen – it grounds me in purpose and makes me feel alive.
I write when I am all screamed out – after the volcano of my emotion has erupted on my family and they still don’t heed my wisdom. I retreat to my screen to avoid their scowling faces, which serve as a mirror of my failure. I write because I cannot speak or shout in a way my family can hear me.
Sometimes I whisper onto the page – to gain attention amidst the sea of screaming, bitching malcontents – both within my head and on the airwaves — in the hope that even if I cannot speak so that people can hear, maybe if I whisper my point onto the page, I will be part of the greater conversation.
I write to validate my existence. When I’m with my words, I am an independent, creative spirit. I am not a mother, a daughter, sister or spouse – I am doing something just for me and as me. I write because that is what Amy does.