To me, writing is breathing. I have to write.
As a young girl, I remember reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s Garden of Verses in Aunt Jeanette’s TV room. I’d slip into a chair with the book in my lap, and into another world. A world where I felt safe to be who I was. A world I liked.
I love telling stories
A few years later, I won a writing contest in 5th grade. That day I recited my winning entry on the radio in downtown Chicago I found something out about myself. I had a passion for telling stories. Writing what was on my heart.
Artists put color on canvas, mindful of each stroke. Creating the right tone with each piece. My canvas is the computer screen. I tap into words milling around my head, who wait to be seen, to be heard.
And in time I open the door of my mind, coaxing them to come out. Don’t trip over each other, take your time. There’s room for everyone.
I write poetry
Some of the pieces I write are poems where words dance out onto the paper at just the right time. They don’t force their way out, wanting to be seen. They know it will happen if they are just patient.
With words I can be in charge.
I love words—they are the only thing I can manipulate without protest.
Whether it’s writing in a classroom setting, scribbling in a spiral notebook, or pecking away at willing keys, I have always loved writing.
Even letters scrawled to friends and family overseas were opportunities to express myself. Opportunities to touch others.
I write to tell my story
We’re all different. And though we go through similar experiences in life, our perceptions vary as much as our fingerprints.
So I take the events in my life and shine a flashlight on them. And when they’re clear to me, I coax the words to come out and tell their story. To create a picture so vivid you can’t help but be drawn in.
Why do I write? Because it’s what I was made to do. And I take it seriously.
Each and every word.
This post was in response to Jeff Goins post http://goinswriter.com/why-i-write/