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?
, Intermap | 
