In a fiction workshop, the instructor, Lalita Noronha, asked us to ask ourselves “Why do I write?”
My first thought was I write because I like to write. I believe I do it well, and so I follow the law of attraction and gravitate towards what flows more easily. I don’t sing or paint, because I don’t do either of those things well and don’t want to fill my life with the frustrations of trying. Is that the real reason, though? Do I write because it is easy? Do I write because I’m lazy? Hardly.
When you really get into it, writing is work. It is work I love, but why do I love it enough to keep at it? That was the question I tried to answer.
I was surprised to find myself jotting into my notebook that writing makes me feel more organized. My experiences don’t slip away, my thoughts are saved. Without writing, I’m just living with no record of it. With writing, I know I am here.
I sew. Once I took up sewing, I noticed how clothes are put together. Now that I write, I notice how life is put together. My friend Nelle Stanton pointed out to me that nothing comes from seeds until they crack. For me, it is my writing that breaks the seed.
Writing has helped me through some difficult times, but I don’t just leave it for that. Writing also enhances the good times and gives me a heightened awareness of how great things can be. It shows me the progress I have made toward becoming myself, toward becoming the version of me that I respect the most.
The more I am myself the more I have to offer others. The more I write; the more I am.
