If This is Why We Write…
If we write to taste life twice, there are some stories I don’t want to write. Anais Nin said through writing, we experience life two times: in the moment and in retrospect, but with certain experiences once is enough, and once is plenty.
If we write to document, to capture events, experiences, and memories, we should remember that, unlike cameras, our minds always have a filter on, but maybe that’s the magic of it.
If we write to change the ending, adding unexpected twists and turns, there’s a long list of drafts waiting for me. I’m not one to dwell in regret, but I have my what-ifs: the maybes and almosts that didn’t come to be.
If we write to process our feelings, to make sense of our whats and whys and hows, then we are never not writing. We are writing all the time: every time we answer how our day was, every time we tell our anecdotes, big and small.
If we write to expel the words that we don’t dare utter in the real world, then what are these stories made of? Unashamed love letters and heartfelt apologies? Are the words scented with perfume and secret desires? Are the words sharpened like weapons to hold against the bullies we didn’t stand up to? Are they hellos to strangers we found attractive or goodbyes to people we no longer talk to? What is the shape of our unspoken words?
If we write because it’s how we play, let us never stop writing. Let our paragraphs be the fabric of blankets strung over furniture to make tents, where we imagine ourselves as explorers. Let us mold sentences like wet sand building sand castles. Let our words be toy cars we can race on printed rugs, skidding on exciting twists and turns. Our writing can be a treasure chest filled with princess gowns, pirate hats, and chainmail-like armors we can use to play often and freely.
If writing is how we share ourselves with the world, let words be colorful beads we wear around our necks. Let words be exactly what we need to put ourselves out there, give us courage, and show our true colors. Let words be bricks that build sturdy bridges that connect us with others.
And if we write for the act of writing itself, for the simplest, purest joy of stringing words together, it’s the easiest and hardest answer to give. If it does not immediately resonate; it’s not easy to explain. It’s the least rational of all the reasons here, where writing is art, a thing we create, that we can observe, engage with, or walk away from.
There are so many reasons why we write and so many ways we can use these symbols to construct and deconstruct stories. Why do you write? What is your hope for your words?
