I write because a blank sheet of paper is daring me to make a mark on it.
Because I found my pen, the one with the purple ink. Later it will appear garish and the phrase "purple prose" will roll around in my head, stuck like the Oscar Meyer wiener song sometimes is. The pen will go out with the garbage. I will write with one from State Farm Insurance.
Because I love words. I love tossing them around on the page until they are windblown and frowzy with my impatient breath.
I write because I can't sing, or play the harmonica, or conduct an orchestra. Words on the page are the notes and melodies, the tympani and horns of my life.
Because I am afraid of writing. I do not trust that this time, today, I will put words on the page that matter to me, that reach for some truth, that show a moment.
I write because when I don't for a while — say weeks or months — I am lost. The roads and pathways, once well-marked with painted signposts to direct me, have faded from my life's map. I am bogged down on unmarked detours. A GPS for daily living would be good. I'd settle for a simple compass with a true north needle. It takes a long time to find my way back.
Because, even though my husband only remarks I am happier when I am writing, I know he means I am less critical and less likely to nag him for forgetting to pick up the cat food like he promised.
I write because as a child I was truly taught to be "seen and not heard."
Because as a young woman I was never to contradict any man. Keep the peace. Don't rock the boat. Shh! But in my sky-blue bedroom I could fly on outstretched wings crafted of paper and pencil — a flock of words soaring and swooping, carrying me along.
Because once when I said I thought I would write something about times at our family summer cottage, my mother said, "Don't you dare!" I asked why and she replied, "Nothing ever happened here." Although I have yet to write that story, I am not so sure she was right.
Because it is a chance to sit down and sometimes that is all I need, an excuse to sit down.
Because I am vain enough to think my words are worth it.
Because I love grammar and diagramming sentences and the look of words dancing across the page.
I write because I can hide in my little study with the door closed and type on my computer (even though I have yet to find a word processing app I truly love) and if anyone knocks on the door, or worse yet opens the door, and says, "Do you know where the green-handled trowel is?" I can say, "I can't think about it now. I'm writing."
Because I am no different than the cave dwellers who were compelled to scratch out accounts of their lives on the walls. By the way, just why do we think it was men who did this? Weren't they all out running around with spears trying to fell mastodons and stopping off for skittles and beer at the local pub? It was the women who sheltered the children in the caves, who kept the fires lit. And, I will submit, it was the women at home who etched out the figures and glyphs we can still see today. Home decorating 101, Neolithic wallpaper.
I write because I even like making grocery lists with all the abbreviations that have evolved after decades of scratching them out. I like the records they hold. When I find one from some weeks ago in a jacket pocket. I can say, "Oh, yes. That was when I made the Clementine Torte for Sarah's birthday.
Because I seldom take photographs. Unless it is a matter of record, like a 3rd birthday or a 30th anniversary. I simply cannot stick with the picture-taking approach. I always feel the camera has come between me and the moment, me and the story.
Because every so often, I find a piece I wrote last year, or maybe longer ago, written in my own hand and I read it. Although I have no recollection of writing it, I think it's not so bad!
I write because I promised myself I would.
I write because it is what I do and I like it!
