While reading something that I wrote today, SB said that it was touching and he didn't think I could have said it better. While he might be a little biased, I think there's something in what he said. I had a day today where the wheels just fell off and I spent the day nestled in my parents couch wrapped in a duvet (tired, not sick or depressed, just deathly tired) with a lot of time to think. I came to the following conclusion.
I like to write. Writing letters, writing lists, writing blog posts, writing stories... I get pleasure from the creation of a well-crafted piece of writing. I am an actress (or at least a drama teacher) and public speaking isn't hard for me. I'm one of the first to leap into a conversation about something that I'm passionate about. Yet even in these situations something is lacking.
Writing gives me the opportunity to think slowly about what I want to say. Writing gives me the chance to delete and rewrite, making sure that each sentence says exactly what I want it to. Writing gives me the chance to get thoughts out of my head so that they can no longer torment me. Whether it is a to-do list trapped in my mind or a hurt I'm nursing, once it's out of my head and on paper or screen, I can relax.
Writing gives me the power to withhold knowledge if I know it will hurt, or place conditions on what I wrote. An example of this is this blog. My mother knows of this blog's existence, yet she knows it is my place to be free. She can read it on condition that she doesn't object to the content... and let's face it, it may not always frame her in the best light. The same applies to me reading her blog. If I want to write about really ugly feelings, I may burn the letter afterwards. It's so cathartic.
Writing on the blog makes me smile - that a record of my life is imprinted on the world and upon everyone who reads this. I hope to live until I'm grey and old and be able to look back on this time. Alternatively, if I'm not so lucky then at least a part of me will exist after I am gone. Maybe my kids will get a laugh at how introspective their mum was in her early twenties. They'll be able to see the time (hopefully) that I met their father, the man of my dreams.
Why do you write?