Today is National Day on Writing. The hashtag #WhyIWrite has been trending on Twitter so I looked for some inspiration because I have been so busy and so tired lately.
A lot of good. Some funny. Some ignorant since it is Twitter. But I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes by one of my favorite authors.
“I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still.”
-Sylvia Plath
I started writing at a young age. I wrote a short story after my sister passed away that made rounds through the school. I think I was in first grade. It was my way of coping with the loss of my baby sister, privately. Until it made multiple teachers cry and hug me. But unwanted attention aside, I didn’t stop.
Reports turned into my favorite homework and I’d find myself sitting at the school library tapping away in Microsoft Word. I once turned in some busy work a substitute teacher gave us two periods later because I found the topic extremely difficult and wanted to continue writing. Quickly writing it during math while occasionally looking up to make sure it didn’t look obvious that I was not paying attention. Looking back, maybe that’s why I never excelled in math. She was not expecting it when I walked in the classroom before seventh period. She saw me leaving school and told me that was sincere and the smartest thing a student has ever turned in.
I took creative writing in high school because not only did I have a crush on the teacher, but I knew I would enjoy the class because my job was to write. He often read my assignments out loud and humiliated me at the parent teacher conference because he told my mom I was a great writer. Maybe a little twisted, but great nonetheless. (Probably because I picked to analyze and write about “Heart Shaped Box” by Nirvana for the music portion.) I took speech and debate with him as well because writing, albeit my fear of public speaking.
I wrote angsty poems and frequently updated my livejournal all throughout high school as most troubled teens did. One poem was published, but I didn’t tell anyone because no one wants to read poems about depression. I started a book after being inspired by a YA book about a teenage girl with suicidal thoughts. No name. Just four notebooks with scraps of a book.
I stopped for a while. Without any support I found it to be pushed aside. I had dreams of becoming an author one day, but being a mom and wife took precedence. But the divorce and feeling like I hit rock bottom inspired my old love. Cathartic, raw writing. First in a journal, then on a blog site and eventually public. The public portion came from my then boyfriend (now husband) being persistent and telling me that I write from the heart and it’s actually good(?!?!). I still only sometimes believe him.
So why do I write?
Sylvia summed it up. But I’ll indulge you.
I write because it’s cheaper than therapy.
I write because I’m angry.
I write because I’m happy.
I write because I’m in love.
I write because I want to shine light on troubles we all face in the dark.
I write because people need to know they’re not alone.
I write to relive my past, even if it’s the most painful part.
I write because I enjoy writing.
I write because one day I’m going to finish (or start) that book.
I write because I want my voice heard.
I write because I feel inspired.
I write because I feel like it’s my calling.
I write because I’m a writer and I won’t stop until I’m finished sharing my story.