Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Why I Write And What Happens When I Do

I write to quiet the demons. The pesky ants that bite me and tickle my skin with their feet.
I write to capture dreams. To recall faces and emotions and what ifs.
I write to know myself.
I write to explore.
And the world around me.
But mostly myself.

When I write I feel luxurious. Like I have all the time in the world. Like I'm important and what I'm saying is so important I have to drop everything that needs to be done in that moment to write those specific words down. Or they'll be lost. Which, ironically, is true.

When I write I feel like I have something to say. Like I AM important. But sometimes I feel that what comes out of my mouth or onto the page is not helpful, not worth saying or reading. Ultimately I want to make a difference in someone's life, and I want my words to make a difference in their lives, but .... it doesn't have to. My actions can do that, too. Like yesterday. I had friends over, and I actually didn't interact much with them at all. But I provided the space for them to be able to connect and relax and feel safe. And THAT made a difference to them.

When I write I see birds, taking flight "to the world that is invisible and is sure of bliss." (from the movie Lady Jane) Promises, echoes, memories, callings. I see imaginary animals and dreams and thoughts barely constructed. I see the past and the future, but rarely the present. I need to remind myself to see the present. Because that's where all the parallels are. That's where the meat of it is. THAT'S where I should be writing from. From the present. Write what I see in front of me. That's what can help people.

And myself.

When I write I discover who I am. Whom I'm meant to be. I discover forgotten dreams. I discover stories in the leaves and hear whispers in the foliage. When I write I discover charm and grace and wit that I don't have in my speaking world.

And THAT is why I love to write.

To access that graceful and creative place that isn't quite so apparent in me otherwise. To reclaim all of me. To remember stories of other lives. Other meanings to things. A new perspective.

Why do YOU write?
And what happens when you do?