Why I Write

Why doesn't everyone write, I wonder.

Every morning I get up and stumble through the day, living someone else's life, living with the fear that this "other" person will return and point an accusing finger. . .

IMPOSTOR!

And then everyone will know.

I gave up wondering about MY life a few years ago. Compared to the stories about the plight of Afghan women, oppressed peoples everywhere, how dare I complain about my vague sense of disconnectedness (what a GREAT word!). There is NOTHING wrong.

I'm not in pain. The roof doesn't leak. The car runs.

One foggy day (in a series of foggy months) I discovered The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. I picked up a pen and scratched out my morning pages. I picked up a pen and felt a gentle nudge, from inside. I picked up a pen and I wrote.

Through the many months and many pages of scribbling, through free writes and timed writes, character sketches, setting and plot diagrams, running outlines and scene sketches, I found me. Living in the corner of the dining room table, underneath a stack of non-fiction books on craft, inspiration, schedule, form, function, technique, and discipline, I found me.

Why do I write?

To connect.

I write so I can feel.

I write so I don't feel afraid.