I write because I can’t not write. It’s something I’ve always done and always do.
It’s part of me, part of who I am. It’s me.
I write for myself, I write for others.
I write here, I write elsewhere.
I write to remember. I write to understand. I write to grieve, to process. To comes to terms, to arrive, to find, to seek, to be.
I write to live.
[Words are my living, my sustenance, they’ve been my way through Hell, my way back out to life, again…]
They’re my constant companion, my ‘safe’, my refuge, my haven.
I write long-hand. I type. I write in the mornings. I write in the evenings. I write at home. I write on the bus. I write notes, I write books, I write, I write, I write…
I fill notebooks and scraps of paper
[…if I ever can’t find a scrap I’ve scribbled….it’s a part of me lost, somehow, somewhere].
I scribble, I jot, I make notes, sketch characters, write snippets of conversation as they come to me. And they always come to me. Forging themselves out of my thoughts, battling their way through, scrambling to be heard. Wanting, as we all do, to be noticed, to come alive, to become real, to be made whole, to be made full through the simple act of being acknowledged.
I’m never without a pen nor a bit of paper
[Heaven forbid if I’m ever caught without either, although I have been known to write on my hand….(arm, actually, when more space was required…)]
It’s who I am.
I’m a writer.
Words are my salvation, my refuge, my North, South, East and West.
My words are my most authentic me.
(There’s power in that)
[Composed in response to Karen Beth’s prompt, ‘I write because’…]