Why I Write

A book open with a pen on top.

I write to untangle the mess of tasks in my head.

Because everyone else seems to know what they’re doing, but I can’t figure it out unless I’ve written it down in at least 3 places and checked it twice.

I write because I’m no good at decorating my house, or creating quilts, or starting a beehive 

And I definitely don’t want to be on the PTA again.

I write because when I wake up I can have a dialogue with real people going through my head

Or one with fake people and the ones with real people tend to get me in trouble.

I write because when I do my shoulders relax and the headache at my temples softens.

And when I come out of my writer’s room I am much nicer to my favorite people than when I went in my room.

I write because there are characters in my head which keep interrupting my thoughts and they seem to want to say something.

I write because I seem to want to say something, though I’m not sure what it is.

I write because I didn’t see this book on the shelf and I’ve wanted to read it for a very long time.

I write because I needed more ways to feel like a failure in my life.

I write because I forget about burning dinner, messing up the conversation and finding a way to fix something that probably doesn’t need fixing.

I write because I have air-conditioning, a computer, my favorite snacks and a little sign telling me I can become a difference maker.

I write because they believed in me and I don’t want to let them down. I write because I’ve tried to stop and found I get the shakes.

I write because I’m bad at conversations and explaining myself out loud 

And I’m hoping if I put the right words on the paper and rearrange them just so that maybe I’ll be able to get my point across.

I write because I haven’t figured out how to be a grown-up yet 

Or do my taxes and fix my dead lawn and if I turn my head ever so slightly from my screen to my window, I might have to figure that out.

I write because I don’t know what people are watching these days and every time I try to figure it out, I become concerned about humanity.

I write because the things that I want to say have already been said, but not in quite this way and that seems to matter to me.

I write because it’s 7:23 in the morning and I’ve already grappled with the strange mixture of fate, agency and credit between parents and children and that seems like a monumental task for the morning.

I write because of the magnetic force pulling me to my keypad.

I write not to say something, but to better listen to what has already been said.