Why I write

Lately I've been ruminating about why I write, because I do it a lot. Every night I write one good thing about my day and answer a question from a journal that I've been working in for about 5 five years now. Every week I write a journal entry in a series that I started one Saturday morning in September back in 2016 that I call my '! per weeks.' I write screenplays, I write short stories, I write essays. I write I write I write---and I'm proud of it. There is a large portion of my heart that is dedicated to storytelling and all of the joy that it can bring and a large portion of my brain that's dedicated to dreaming about becoming a storyteller. So the cheap answer to the question that I've raised for myself would be that I write because I want to pursue it professionally, but I know that it's a lot more complex than that.

During a sunny week in September 2014, I was tasked with a special assignment. It was the first week of fifth grade and my teacher had been giving us a bunch of mini-assessments to see where we were at academically, and on that particular day we were tested on our writing abilities. The prompt was simple: to write about something that we believe that we could easily explain to other people. I was an uber busy little person (how hilarious is that phrase? 'uber busy little person', four adjectives in a row. I have to keep it in simply because it made me laugh while editing. I hope you laughed too), so I knew exactly what to write my paper on---how to choose the perfect extracurricular. The essay itself was written in my chicken-scratch handwriting on a piece of loose-leaf and is probably disintegrating (or whatever paper does when it's thrown away...) in the Orchard Ridge landfill as I write this---there is no record of what I wrote that day, but whatever I did ended up changing my life. 

The day after I turned in my essay my teacher pulled me aside and said "you're good at writing so I want you to help [insert peer's name here] with their essay." The moment the words 'you're good' dropped out of her mouth fireworks and fanfare began in my head. Despite having practically attempted every before and after school activity under the sun, I'd never really found anything that I was particularly decent at and that day I got my first dose of validation from somebody that wasn't genetically obligated to allot it to me---and it turned out to be one hell of a drug. 

DISCLAIMER: I knew that I wasn't the greatest writer then in the same way that I know that I'm not the greatest writer now. I believe that as of right now---now being 6:43 pm on a random Sunday in March of 2021---that I write in an engaging way but lack the technical abilities to seriously be deemed a skilled writer. I can be sloppy with my vocabulary, it's rare to find a sentence of mine that isn't a run-on, and I still cannot for the life of my figure out how to properly use a semicolon. All of this is fine by me. Technique can be trained by working hard but developing a strong and personable voice is a bit trickier, or at least that's what I've been told. I'm glad that I have the latter. 

Ms M who'd had and "hated me a bit" (her words) in 1st grade was thrilled to encourage me to spread my wings and write my heart out within the accepting confines of her classroom. That was the year that I really fell into writing and began to write constantly. This habit wasn't necessarily initially fueled by an interest in writing but rather a newfound hunger for applause. I found audiences wherever I could and quickly realized how lucky I was to be growing up in an educational community that wanted to listen. Immediately after leaving Ms M's room I floated up the hill and into the universe of Mrs K, an 8th-grade teacher that I had the privilege of staying close to due to my work on the forensics team that she coached. 

I like to think of the ever-growing love that I have for writing as a house that has a foundation built by Ms M and walls filled with insulation that's able to temper inevitable changes in the weather by Mrs K. She taught me to trust my ideas, lean into my style, and become confident in my abilities. If it hadn't been for her unconscious continuation of the encouragement that Ms M had given me I wouldn't be the writer, or person if I'm being honest here, that I am today. It was through my time in Mrs K's orbit that my incentive for writing transformed into a healthier mix of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation. 

Everybody's unique. We know that in both physical and mental ways that no two people are exactly alike, and I think that we all want to be appreciated for our uniqueness to some extent. When Lola the 6-year-old remembers her ABCs a beat faster than her twin sister she wants her mom to smile at her, even if she doesn't know it yet. When Ron the 47-year old Rick Springfield loving accountant takes up painting classes at his community center he hopes that his teenage daughter won't laugh at the floral landscape that he created and call it dumb. It takes courage to put oneself out there as a person and when that courage is met with celebration or even simply acceptance it feels electric. I experienced that feeling for the first time as a gawky 10-year-old in Ms M's room and I've been chasing it ever since. 

Writing will always be a part of my life, but its position within it will evolve over time and its evolution is partially out of my hands. This is terrifying because I am a person that adores being in control. I like to be in the driver's seat that is lined with upholstery that I've picked, listening to a song that I've selected, traveling in a direction that I have chosen. I obviously know that I want to be a professional writer and live off of the thing that floods so much life into me, but I also know that the industry is competitive and cutthroat and oftentimes silences the voices that need to be heard the most or fails to even recognize their existence at all. This truth daunts me, but it does not deter me. 

I've danced around the idea of pursuing writing for a long time because it scares me a lot, but I've grown to realize that the nervousness that I feel is really just the brimming enthusiasm that I have for all of the bright things that my future might be being disguised by the fear that I have grown comfortable sitting in. So many adults have unrealized dreams---I see it all around me, it is very obviously the reality that most people end up living with. And while a big part of me is afraid of the challenges and heartbreak that inevitably lie ahead of me, a bigger part of me is afraid of who I will become and all that I will regret if I don't muster up the bravery and give myself the grace to stumble and grow and really truly try.  

I write so I can keep writing. So I don't wake up one morning as a 64-year-old woman that selected security over passion and constantly wonder about all of the joy that my life could have contained if I hadn't. I know that it isn't going to be easy, and I'm comfortable with that fact. Right now my job is to tend to my craft and make sure that when my opportunity comes---and I'm doing absolutely everything within my power to make sure that it does come---that I'm able to snatch it up and create something beautiful with it.