why i write

several weeks ago, a friend challenged me to take a few moments to spell out and blog why it is i write.  i found the timing a bit ironic, considering that at that moment, i was taking a hiatus from writing.  oh, not because i wanted to.  i never really do…

it was because beginning of the fall had happened and my life was crazy.  i needed to find a norm, because without it, i feel like a werewolf at full moon.  i lose myself and start howling.

it ain’t pretty.

well, i’m coming to realize that, at least for this fall, things aren’t going to settle down.  so, i’m just going to take a moment to answer the writing question, with disclaimers and apologies in tow.

this is not coherent, so don’t expect it to be.  rather, think of it like a stream of consciousness, that i’m not going to spend time editing, simply because i have a stack of debate cases still needing my attention, laundry needs to be shifted from the washer to the dryer, and the close of my daughter’s nap is hastening on.

here is my answer to the question of why i write.

frankly, because i need to.

i write because, even though i teach speech, i find more comfort in written words.  there’s a permanence in letters on a page— they have the power to capture fleeting thoughts and emotions and document them, not just for others… but even for yourself.

i write so i can go back and remember what i did, what i thought…

who i was.

the written word is wonderful like that.

the consistency on my blog ebbs and flows depending on my business, my energy, my life at the moment.  but even though there are silent spells— more than i would like— i love this space on seeminglyrandom.  there are memories here.  it documents various stage of my life all the way from a grad student, through travels, through relationships— the ones that didn’t work, and the One that did.  it records my thoughts on becoming a mother, the loss of my child, when i found out i was expecting again.  here you will find the birth of my daughter, my post partum depression. my love of teaching… the woes of teaching…

there is a LOT of my life here… almost a decade.

history is here.

but more than that, hurt and its healing are here.

i have spoken millions, billions, trillions? more words than i’ve actually written.  but those spoken words were born, and they lived and died all within the moment it took for them to form and leave my mouth.

but not here.

my life— with all the moments and things and people i’ve loved and lost, with all the lessons i’ve learned with some pretty steep costs— it is here.

lest i sound narcissistic and selfish— that my writing is all about me— i don’t feel that it the case.  sure, when i share my story, it helps me.  but the act of sharing stories, for that’s what are lives are, is something i personally feel we are called to do.  you see, no one has my story but me.  it the most personal, unique tool that any of us are given.  but what’s cool about each story, is that they all, ultimately, have the same Author. and He’s woven them all together. and when you read someone else’s story, you realize the common themes that the Author weaves into all His Work… so you not only learn more about yourself, but also insight into the Grand Author.

and *that* is why i write.


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