Why I Write (inspired by Terry Tempest Williams)

I write because I am an egg soft and gooey in its shell and when you break me open, I can take on different forms. Sometimes I scramble, sometimes I run. Sometimes I burn and crust at the edges. I do not want to stay in the shell or in the carton or in the fridge or in the kitchen or anywhere in the goddamn house. And so I write to leaving. I write to observe, to prick, to tear open the hole in the sweatshirt, to touch the silky hair of a stranger. I write because explanations and sight never satisfy me. Because I’m always wondering what’s in that house or that one. I write for all the unresolved questions that weigh the clouds down. For all the families in silent cars and each monologue playing in each member’s head. “Are we a family at all?” I write to sort, to draw lines between abstract things. To repair the broken or pull things apart. I write because I feel so many strong feelings all at once and they tip me over the way water in great volume does. I write because I am afraid what my mind will do if my hands are interrupted. I write because I can flirt with the librarian but I cannot touch him. I write because it lets me imagine all the possibilities and assess their great possibleness. I write to compare, to prepare, to remember. I write so my children will know me if I die when they’re young. I write to show my family and friends who I am. I write to teach that it is good to emote, to probe, push and pour. I write to apologize. I write to empathize. I write to send affection and warm wishes. Sometimes, I write to ask, “Where are you?” I write when I cannot run. I write when I am sick. I write when exhaustion seeps in. I write because it makes me feel like I am doing something even when I am nearly still in a quiet room. I am living. I am leaning forward. I write to learn to love myself. I write to appreciate what I have. I write to understand my relationship with my parents. I write because it gives me hope. It is one thing I deeply enjoy. I write because I am vain and in love with places and things and sometimes I feel like if I don’t document a moment or a feeling, it will evaporate forever and be wasted. So many memories sweep to the floor. Only dogs can smell them. Only children can see them. I write to be connected with the earth, to feel grounded and stronger with a foundation to root myself into. I write to be more than my profession, more than a skeleton, to shape my own clay. I write to paint all my parts, to destroy who I am and rebuild again. I write to being and becoming. 

*I wrote this about a year ago at Edendale Branch Public Library, my second favorite library…for now.