Why I Write

The ending of 2013 was a bit rocky, though I think I’ve figured out why.  I stopped writing.  Life got pretty hectic and I felt like I had to set something aside, and writing was what I chose.  December was a terrible month, but after a long talk with my dad over the holidays, I realized that writing is my escape. 

When life gets hectic, the last thing to do is desert the thing that releases stress.  While driving to my parents’ house and back, I began writing again, and I remembered everything that I love about writing.

Going back to my stories is like greeting old friends.  I know these characters inside and out.  I know their struggles and their needs, and I want to cheer for them as they pursue their goals.  These characters make up a large part of my life.  And I know that it sounds weird saying that since technically they aren’t real.  But they’re real to me. 

Writing is a way for me to connect with my subconscious.  My creativity.  My inner child.  The part of my mind that doesn’t stress about passing medications on time or whether or not someone needs a catheter changed.  A section that doesn’t notice the laundry that’s piling up or the dishes lying in the sink.  In that part of my mind, I don’t remember the health problems that bring me down or the disappointment that make me want to cry.  It’s the chance to feel new and renewed, experiencing life for the first time and in a new world where I can control everything that happens.  I know that things will work out, even if it’s an imaginary struggle.  It still feels like a victory when it’s over.

When I write, I create.  I make a difference that I can see.  That’s not always possible in the rest of life.  As a nurse, sometimes, I get discouraged, knowing that there’s only so much that I can do for someone.  The human body is unpredictable, constantly changing.  At home, no matter what I do, there’s always something else that needs attention.  But when I write, I can see the changes, the increase in word count, the building of chapter upon chapter.  And no matter what happens, whether I need to rewrite it or not, it’s there.  I’ve saved it and it’s not going to disappear.  It’s not going to change. 

I need writing.  I need to allow that part of myself freedom to create and to flow.  When I suppress it, the rest of my life suffers and I struggle to focus. 

Why do you write?