Why I write
Word sketches from my notebook. 22 April, 2023.
I write to make sense of my world and the events that happen. I write to keep a record of things—a smell, a moment, or an epiphany—that would otherwise exist only in my own head.
Writing feels like a legacy, a way to be understood, embracing my happiness, my traumas, my interpretation of it all.
I write to explain myself, to show that my actions always stem from a place of good intentions or, if not, from a place of hurt.
Does that make sense?
Writing humanises me, helping to unravel the mysteries of my own behaviour.
Sometimes, it's only through writing that I can see the daylight, discovering the nooks and crannies previously invisible to me.
It’s a gift that writing from the heart gives this personal insight and reflection.
I write as a connection to a wiser version of myself, so that (one day) my children can see the components beneath the blood, nerves, and bone of my being.
I write to keep my voice alive; the thought of a suddenly silent me is frightening. It cannot end here.
I write hoping that someone will understand who I really was (am) and what prevented me from becoming what I should have been.
What is the answer to your ‘why’?
I think my answer is mostly because I want to...
I want to write. When I sit down, I want to write. When I see or hear something interesting, I want to write. When I'm moved by something, in any way, I want to write.
I can't say it's my primary means of expression because, of course, I'm chattering away all the time, and also what I'm wearing is something of an expression, but it seems that's not enough because, I still want to write.
Brilliant