The same reason the drunkard needs another sip and the junkie needs another hit. I write because it makes me feel good. I write because it helps make the pain go away. I write because it gives me control over my own reality.
“There she goes, writing about him again,” they say the instant I share a new article on Facebook. Through my words, you, the reader, are exclusively invited into my world — the one that many people don’t get a chance to visit let alone find a home in. I write what I know and most of what I know is the pain of the heart.
The words that bleed from my hands are far different than the thoughts that come out of my mouth. I write before I know my own opinion. I let the words dance around until they compose themselves into a comprehensible thought, one that is good enough for anyone else but myself to hear. My journal is filled with daily ramblings, none of which make sense; endless questions, some of which only I can answer; and final thoughts – everything that has been pulled to bits.
Sometimes I write for others but I will always write for myself. Sometimes it’s a letter, one that I can never send, so I write to make myself believe I can actually talk to that person again. For a brief moment, he is with me again, listening to me, hearing me out, and caring for what I have to say. For a brief moment, writing makes everything possible again, like dreaming. It’s like revisiting a childhood memory, allowing myself to savor every sight, smell, and sound.
Other times I write to grab the attention I’m otherwise afraid to ask for. I could write what’s in my heart for seven million readers to read, but none of it would matter if he didn’t read it at all. I can’t call, text, or send an email, because I know he doesn’t want to hear from me. I know he doesn’t care. So I give him a chance to hear from me if he wants to. He knows where to find me, he knows where to find my thoughts if ever so his heart desires.
Writers are fragile creatures. We never think we are good enough, whether it is at writing or just at life. Writers pour their hearts out onto paper and once another sees what’s inside, it is as terrifying as being naked in front of an audience or standing at the edge of a cliff about to jump.
I write to tell my story. Not to brag or ask for your pity. I write as I hit milestones, discover epiphanies, and wish to share what I know. I write because it is the only thing that makes sense to me in this world. It is the only way for me to make sense of the world and it is the only way for me to understand my place in this world. Writing gives me the freedom to evaluate the relationships I have, the choices I make, and the experiences I live.
Writing is my freedom and my sixth sense. To me, everything is a story. Everything I see is a part of a sentence or the end of a paragraph. Everything I’m unsure of turns into words and suddenly I see the picture clearly. Everything comes together but then everything must also end.
Writing doesn’t always make me feel better. While it can help me understand, sometimes writing breaks my heart, when I have to accept the reality of a situation. Sometimes writing is your best friend, the one who tells you like it is, no matter how much it hurts. Writing puts you in your place whether you like it or not. Writing can take you to a different world or writing can make you see the world as it is — as truthful, as painful, as real as it can be.
While writing can create friends, even fans, writing can also create enemies. No one wants to be in the limelight nor the bad light. But when all concerns a writer, no one is safe. Be careful with what you say. Be careful with what you do and most of all, be careful with what you promise. Because to a writer, everything — every little thing — is recorded into their mental notepad to remember forever.