Why do I write? I need to sit and ponder the reasons. If I can.
To be truthful, I haven’t entertained thoughts as to why I write. Until now. Writing has always been a large part of my life, and a larger part of who I am. It is my best friend, and to whom I seek when the events in my external world are impossible to fathom. It is my Teddy Bear and fuzzy, warm blanket.
When my throat swells, and I am unable to produce appropriate words, my fingers quiver, encouraging me to find quiet corner and allow my feelings to express themselves on the paper pad I always carry in my purse.
Since I give worship a whole new meaning when I try to sing, I worship my Heavenly Father through my words. Doing so allows me time to pause and dwell on each word or thought, not just as I write it, but in the future as well. Often, when I reread my worship words I pause, and wonder did I write that?
I am an introvert. I do not do well in large groups. I never learned the art of small talk, nor do I enjoy listening to it. If I have something to say, I’ll say it, which often gets me in trouble. After years of getting myself into deep water, I’ve learned that I write much better than I talk, and by doing so, my life is much smoother and less regretful.
I am also the middle sibling, and the second daughter in our family, which made growing up with a voice extremely difficult. Sometimes it felt like forever for me to get a word edgewise into a conversation. When screaming “I’ve got something to say,” or stomping my foot in frustration didn’t get me voice time, I turned to pencil and paper. It worked like magic. I could finally state my opinion uninterrupted. Not that it did me much good, because no one read it, but it did leave me feeling smug.
For me, writing is a privilege. It is my calm in a storm, a bridge across deep water. Experience has taught me it is the safest way to express myself. It fills hours in my day, and always makes me smile when I type ‘the end’ of my latest story.