Asking why I write is like asking why I move, or eat or sleep. It is not really a choice. Even when I’m not writing, I’m writing. The pen is moving in my mind, making stories in little thought clouds above my head. Sometimes, like this past summer, I hardly wrote at all. With all the sun, kids and vacations, I found it challenging to sit and write. But all the while, I wrote stories to myself. About the great blue ocean. And the chimes of wedding bells. And my dog running through the tall grass.
Writing is my aspirin when the headache gets too big. It’s my end of day glass of wine when the hours have been a burden. It’s my salve when I’m achy and sore. But it’s also a form of celebration; a snapshot of a memory too beloved to let fade, a trinket to look upon again and again. It is a yummy cookie to savor not just in the baking, but in the sweet pleasure of taking a bite.
When time goes by and I haven’t written, like over the summer, I always know it’s there waiting for me. And so I write long notes and cards, lists and this keeps me going for awhile. But then, writing sits and waits as if in a drawer, waiting to be inevitably opened.
Writing is patient with me, though I not always with it. And here we are.
photo by Barbara Paulsen at tandemechoes.com.