My friend asked me why I write. I gave her an answer, an honest answer, that it was something I always loved and now have the time to delve in and explore.
Driving home after our lunch, though, her question continued to float around me, making its presence known as strongly as the traffic I was stuck in.
"Why do you write?"
I write out of fear. I write because one day I will get dementia and won't be able to form a sentence. I write because one day I will be so incapacitated and wracked in pain that I will be lucky if I can meet my daily needs.
"Why do you write?"
I write because there are mournful memories that undulate within me at all times, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing. And when the tide of sadness is too much, I write because it's the least toxic choice to help ease the pain.
"Why do you write?"
I write because I am helpless and hate my helplessness. I have watched a man, unstoppable blood violently spewing from his nose, lifeless on the ground after being hit by a car, his simple bicycle and school-size milk cartons splayed sadly beside him. I have watched the young couple who hit him unable to move, a mask of shock and sorrow across their faces.
"Why do you write?"
I write because shadows lurk everywhere, watching and waiting, watching and waiting. I write because the words that appear on my page as I type and type momentarily push those shadows into the corners.
"Why do you write?"
I write because I want my children and my husband to always remember me. I write because I know that one day I will be dead, my voice forever silenced.
"Why do you write?
Driving home after our lunch, though, her question continued to float around me, making its presence known as strongly as the traffic I was stuck in.
"Why do you write?"
I write out of fear. I write because one day I will get dementia and won't be able to form a sentence. I write because one day I will be so incapacitated and wracked in pain that I will be lucky if I can meet my daily needs.
"Why do you write?"
I write because there are mournful memories that undulate within me at all times, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing. And when the tide of sadness is too much, I write because it's the least toxic choice to help ease the pain.
"Why do you write?"
I write because I am helpless and hate my helplessness. I have watched a man, unstoppable blood violently spewing from his nose, lifeless on the ground after being hit by a car, his simple bicycle and school-size milk cartons splayed sadly beside him. I have watched the young couple who hit him unable to move, a mask of shock and sorrow across their faces.
"Why do you write?"
I write because shadows lurk everywhere, watching and waiting, watching and waiting. I write because the words that appear on my page as I type and type momentarily push those shadows into the corners.
"Why do you write?"
I write because I want my children and my husband to always remember me. I write because I know that one day I will be dead, my voice forever silenced.
"Why do you write?
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