Such a simple question, yet such a weighted one.
“Why do you write?”
At first, I am dumbfounded by the question. Wide-eyed, empty-headed, and wordless. Taken aback now by both the question and my immediate lack of response.
In a mental time lapse, of seconds for the inquirer and a lifetime for me, I consider the question.
I write, because I have always written. It is as much a part of me as the blood that courses through my veins.
As a child, I wrote reports. Or, manually copied encyclopedia entries and pretended they were reports, because at those tender, young ages, plagiarism was not yet in my vocabulary. In fact, the most memorable ‘report’ was one I wrote on the giant clam, copied verbatim, in pencil and on wide-ruled spiral notebook paper, from the old encyclopedia Brittanica set on my grandmothers bookshelf. As I sprawled out on that rough, worn carpet, I wrote until my hand-cramped. Then, I wrote more and more, until the entire entry was transcribed into my handwriting. Although I know I proudly brought it to the adults sitting in the kitchen, I did not write it for them. I wrote it for me. I wrote it to experience the words coming off the page, to life, as though I truly was under the sea, face-to-face with the giant clam, observing it’s mysteries.
Later, I would write poetry. I would fill notebooks, bringing my own emotions and thoughts to live through prose. Then, I would stop writing poetry. I would tire of the requests for specifically themed poems, and lose the joy (if only for a while), that writing brought me, and me alone.
Life happens. I went to medical school and all my time was dedicated to studying, and writing, science. I became a mother, and what little time I protected for myself was willingly given to my amazing children.
Over a decade later, I would find myself writing again more. A part of me was lost when I stopped, but I could no longer really remember that part, let alone recognize it. Yet, it found me. Slowly, teasing out that creative side while writing medical content. With the deep desire to create a blog, even it if remains poorly read. To simply put that writing back out there, even if it was just for me. Just like that report of the giant clam.
Why do I write?
Because I have to. Because it is who I am, who I have always been, despite all that has happened since that day I laid on my grandmother’s floor with an old encyclopedia and a pencil.