Why Do I Write?

          

           There is no reason, although I have found some very good plausible justifications.

I write because I have to, because my whole being is compelled to do it, because it is in my DNA. Because I believe more in who I am and what I do, when I write it down. Because I believe in writing. Writing saves me, changes me, improves my consciousness and my hope in the present time.

Darrell Calkins, author of "Re:" says "If you want to know what you really value, look at where and how you spend your time." I have written since I was 7. I have used my time, energy, mind, emotions, hands, and thousands of sheets and pens and ink looking for a better posture in life, a more credible existence, through writing.

      Writing unites me with others. Writing is one of my ways to reach other people and build bridges between us.

      “Aurora,” says Peggy, who is helping me editing my stories, staring at the page in front of her with crystalline eyes, a red pen in her right hand, “What did you mean by ‘atmospheric eyes’?”

     “Huge, enormous… larger than my head, taking it all in,” I say, spilling words around me like a fountain in spring.

     “Then ‘atmospheric’ does not work. I wondered if it meant full of anxiety, scared, or painful,” she answers gravely.

I can see the options scribbled at the margin.

“No, I wanted to say that my body disappeared and I became just those two titanic eyes that saw it all, the hills, the bay, the ships, the whole sky, and my mother in the centre… I couldn’t stop absorbing everything,” I defend my scene.

“Ah then! That is what you have to write, explain your vision!”

Writing with other people, kind and committed friends who sit with me sipping a coffee, their notes on their lap, thinking with me, bringing me back to my ulterior motivation and memories, shedding tears with me, editing my mistakes and acknowledging the inspiration they get through my own words, is an emotionally essential adventure I would never miss.

And writing  unites me with a part of myself that remains low and secluded if I do not express it by inventing sequences of words and stringing them together in a plot of which I never know the end in advance.

I write as a deliberate leap into mystery, so I can then observe myself flying and landing in a graceful or pathetic way. Writing is my most direct method to assume responsibility for my words, my silence, my engagement or my lack of it.

Writing shows me my status and state of mind in life: a bit uptight, self-limiting, procrastinating, too economical, controlling, forgetful, full of joy and insecurities, not practical enough, not laborious enough, not daring to change, hopeful, magical, social, artistic, not flexible enough, overwhelmingly drowning in fleeting ideas.

Writing is fun. It satisfies a crazy self-curiosity. It is like undressing to the bone and exposing unknown layers of the self. 

Writing is a science of balance and compulsion. A journey to good habits and rituals, and against the distractions of fast life.       

            Writing is also the science of vulnerability. The risk is varied and real. But every minute, every single struggle to express myself in a truthful way, brings me closer to the top of a mountain from which I will see a vaster horizon.

Writing is a way to stop and breathe, to process a sphere of sacredness and render it in a more appropriate shape to others and to myself.

Why do you write?