I can remember, when I was very young, writing stories in my Grandma Helen's living room. I remember one story about a bird, written on little slips of paper. I don't know why that one memory is so clear, but I've never forgotten it, though I have no idea about the details of the story.
I loved my English classes in high school. Assigned one chapter or a book, or one act of a play, I'd happily tear through so much more in one night. Writing the accompanying papers was a joy.
The same was true of college. I've often said that I would go back to college in a heartbeat if I could just have classes like my senior thesis class where we met for a few weeks to talk about theory and critiques, but then spent most of the rest of the time on our own, meeting with the professor and hitting our page goals each week. Writing that 30-page paper was so much fun. I chose the topic, I loved the research, I met my goals and worked over spring break. And it came together quite well.
But now, years and years after that, I have no idea why I write. It's an outlet, sure, but everyone says that. I think, sometimes, that I write because I think I should. I have a BA in English and a master's degree in Library Science. I should be using one of them, right?
Instead I'm not using either one of them. I'm good at my job, very good at it. But it's no creative outlet and it's not something I'm passionate about. It's a job. This blog, sharing the projects Phee and I do, and the recipes I make, is my creative outlet. Even then, it's not quite enough anymore.
I have projects in mind. I have snippets of stories, plot ideas, character names. I just can't seem to find the time to get to them. Or even get them into any sort of order.
I have lots of blog posts in mind, that aren't project or recipe related. Finding time to get those thoughts out of my head and onto paper is nearly impossible these days.
So, honestly, I don't know why I write. I know why I don't write and that list is long and plentiful. Probably only a handful of those reasons, excuses if you will, are legitimate.
Writing is scary, quite frankly. What if you write crap? What if your words don't make sense to anyone, least of all yourself? What if, god forbid, you actually share something real about yourself? I mean, that's the point, but when it comes down to actually doing it? Scary.
For now, I write because... because I can, because I like to, because I want to become a better writer, because I want it to become more natural and more of a habit, because I have the skills and I'd hate for them to get too rusty.
And really, sometimes it's just easier to share yourself in words you don't actually have to speak.
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