Years ago I edited a writing guild’s newsletter that ran a feature entitled “Why I Write.” While I enjoyed reading responses from various writers in the group, I never asked myself that question. Imagine my surprise recently when the title resurfaced in the form of an opening blog post my brother wanted me to look over for his new writing endeavor.
That’s my topic, I thought, inspired by his sincere words in the face of our shared loss. And so I take up the question here.
Why do I write?
I write to figure things out for myself. My brain seems to work well this way.
I write because I’ve been given a gift and I want to honor the Giver. For the longest time, I haven’t been using it, and He’s been gently calling me back to reveal more of myself through my words.
I write because I want to speak from my heart, to connect with like-minded folks—this hasn’t always been easy for me. The sting of rejection, decades old, still causes me to hesitate.
I write because I love words and how they flow together, love the music of them.
I write because I want to give back. I want to provide a safe place for friends to gather, a place of encouraging words and the simple life from my little corner of rural America.
I write because it’s who I am.
Linger here awhile. You’re always welcome.