I write because I like to, need to, and want to. I write because when I do, I feel that I have been heard and I have connected. Even if no one reads it, I have gotten it out.
When I write, the empty page is my friend, my confidant and n=y therapist. It is the perfect relationship. It waits for me, no matter how long it takes me to come to it. It never judges, accuses me of whining, or being silly, wrong,unfaithful, stupid, shallow or boring–even when I am. It is never disappointed in what I have to say. It just stays there and takes it all in. It never tells me, “You didn’t mean that. You are not like that. How could you think or feel that way?”
Writing is freeing, enjoyable, sometimes painful, and I love it. I wouldn’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t write. I need to express myself, to be heard, to be honest,complain, play, have fun, and to imagine whatever I want. It just continues to wait, accepts and allows whatever comes out of me.
Writing is what I do and who I am. The blank page is the one place I can always go to and not be turned away. For me, I seem to come alive when the paper and I get together. Then, there is nothing I can’t do; no place I can’t go.
I can stay in the here and now, or I can fly as far as my imagination can take me. I can paint the world as I see it and live it or, I can change it.
I can tell my story, or I can create new people, new places, or new stories.
It is all mine and I am completely in control of what I put down on the page. I can share it with someone, everyone, or keep it all to myself.
Sometimes I don’t write because I’m too busy and don’t leave enough time.
Sometimes I feel that everything has to be doe first–clean my house, make the beds, cook the meals, do the laundry, organize my office,make appointments, balance the checkbook, or call people and find out how they’re feeling. And on and on with the excuses. When I finish, whatever, then I’ll write. Or, I tell myself I need an assignment to get started, or everything I write is boring, the same old/same old. Excuse after excuse.
I love to write, but until I sit down and do it, I forget how much it means to
me–how much I need to write–no matter what.