Why I Write
The
fondest memory I have of my relationship with the written word is when my
father encouraged me to write my stories and then took the time to read each
one. I believe I was nine years old and
was an avid bibliophile in the 4th grade. Books were friends and companions for me and
allowed me to journey to places like Brooklyn and Martha’s Vineyard and to
discover humanity, to gain my voice, and to write even more stories that my
father read when he returned from his business trips.
My
earliest memories involve me lying on the floor in my upstairs bedroom, Big
Chief Notebook spread out on the floor, No. 2 tan pencil in my hand, and my
imagination taking flight. I wrote an
imagined story about the Irish Potato Famine and a shortage of French fries in
1974 Jefferson City. I wrote a
coming-of-age story about a young girl who lived with her older siblings in a
posh New York high rise. I think I was
about ten or eleven when I imagined that world full of rich dialogue and
heroines with a purpose to right all the wrongs of the world.
Those
early stories are long gone now, lost in a basement flood that always seemed to
plague our house on Gordon Street whenever it rained. It seemed to not matter that we lived on the
top of a hill and water should be running down, every rain meant we were
lugging out the Rainbow vacuum cleaner to suck up two feet of water that made
the boys’ room and the rec room a built-in swimming pool. It was in one of those rains, us kids all
moved on, I was living in Chicago at the time, when my stepmother sadly
informed me that all my “stories from when you were a kid” were washed up,
soggy, moldy pages now. She just “had to
throw them away.”
When
I learned my writing was no longer in the universe, I felt a tremendous sense
of loss and sadness, despite not having laid my eyes on those pages for twenty
years. The mere fact that they existed
were reminders that the innocence of my early years also existed, that I did
create something magical on those old Big Chief Notebooks. It also gave me a resolve to try to keep all
my writing from then on.
Adulthood,
marriage, divorce, moving, and choosing meant that once again, some of my
writing did not make the journey with me.
I wrote a very moving poem, Ntozake Shange style, when I was a freshman
in college, it is long gone, as well as some of my early attempts at poetry,
lost to a boyfriend who had my heart.
I
am almost fifty now and I know now what I wish I knew then – words are worth
preserving, worth protecting, worth remembering. I now create most of my work online because
it is eternal and will be protected from basement floods, out-of-state moves,
and old boyfriends. I think I type, even
with carpel tunnel, because at 80wpm, it is at the speed of my thought. Poetry, letters, cards, and my journal are
still written in longhand with a very special hand carved Cocobolo wooden
pen. It is when I write in longhand that
I connect back to my ten-year-old self and the wooden floor of my upstairs
bedroom. I can close my eyes and see the
dormer window curtain fluttering and the top leaves of the big oak tree. Downstairs, I hear my father’s booming
baritone and feel myself wanting to hurry up and finish so my long skinny legs
can jump two-at-a-time down the stairs and run to the long dining table where I
know he will be sitting, sipping coffee, writing his sermons, and listening to
Dan Rather.
Words
and I, books and I, writing and I have been companions for four decades,
together we have grown in understanding of each other and the needs we share. I am more comfortable with my voice and am
assured that I have something important to contribute. I write under a pseudonym to honor my late
parents, it is a special name my father gave me and a connection back to my
fore-mothers.
I write because I am, I exist, and I do not
fit into a box. I have married myself,
my writing self, my expressive self and have given her room to breathe through
black type and pink ink. I have given my ten year old self the space and time
to grow into her almost fifty year old self and to be brave enough to share her
thoughts with more than just her big, tall daddy who would shower her with
praise and encourage her to write more.
I write because I breathe.
Comments
Post a Comment
Thoughtful dialogue is appreciated.