Writing is a part of me the same way I need blood in my veins. Since my earliest memories, I’ve needed to write to live. I would say “I am a writer” but really, it’s truer to say, “writing is me.” I visualize in words. Words mean the most or hurt the most. Words saved my life as far back as I can remember. In 1st grade I can remember hearing my teacher read a story to my class and knowing without a doubt that I was meant to tell stories. I wrote them constantly. The simple pleasure of losing yourself onto a page and into the world I could create with my words. In my adult life a dear friend told me I paint portraits with my words; it is the highest compliment I have ever received. For many years writing was a way to protect myself, outside of school and never for the consumption of any other humans. It was hidden or secret, but it was quiet and kept to the side of myself.
Knowing how sacred the written word has always been has created an extreme amount of comfort and an extreme amount of anxiety. I leave behind a piece of me every time I put words to paper. It can be overwhelming to my brain to think about people reading something I have written and not understanding it or worse, thinking it means something else entirely. On the other hand, I never express myself as truly or well as I do through writing. It can be an exhausting place inside my head and the tighter I hold onto the words inside my brain the more exhausting it becomes. I’ve learned a lot over the years about letting these words out and I keep trying to be bolder and put these words down.
Why do I write? A question that burns through my brain like lava through a floor. It doesn’t seem to be a choice. It seems to be the lot I have received. I have to decide each time I put pen to paper or fingers to keys if it is going to be a blessing or not. Do I use the gift given for good or bad? Should I hide or explore? Words can last forever; look at the millions of pages out there written by people all over the world! Quotes from decades upon decades ago that people still use today. I think about those writers and authors; if they were alive today and I asked, “Is this what you wanted or is this what these words meant to you?” How would they respond? Would their hearts be filled with joy at the words or would it be remorse? Would they roll their eyes and comment how people just don’t get them? These are the questions I wonder about what I write. Who is going to read it and why. I write for me because it is a part of the make-up of my soul but I also write because someone out there may need my words.
Writing for The Good Logger is another chapter in my own story of writing. I don’t know the future or the why but I know that when God offers a gift, I will accept. Pen to paper. Finger to keys. Heart to soul. It is why I write.