A creative title escapes my mind

Why do I write?

When I have free time on my hands, something that I seem to have less and less of, why would I choose to pick up a pen and press it to paper, scribbling out word after word? Why choose to sit behind the glowing screen of a computer, fingers taping on tiny little lettered squares?

Why, of all things, do I write?

To write is to speak. To myself and to you, my anonymous reader. To give you my voice, my ideas, without risking the stumble of my tongue. I am articulate, but unlike speech, my own speech, writing is organized- for the most part. To write is to reflect on events that have taken place, to reflect on my behavior, to reflect on who I am and who I’ve been, and how those two are twisted together. With writing, I can clearly see the way that my past and present are what will push me into the unknown- the future.

If writing ceased to exist, or had I chosen to excuse myself from the process, the task of the often time consuming exercise that is writing, I would not be able to track all the people I’ve been in my life. All the stages I’ve passed through. Writing is a record of my life, and as the author, I am at simultaneously  the most reliable and unreliable source. As objective as I would like to think I remain, I am flawlessly biased.

I write because I need to share my experiences. I need to share them with myself in a way that allows me to dig deeper into what transpired, and ask myself -how and why? To write is to take a step back from a painting, to see the picture in its whole, as opposed to the distance we often stand at to absorb detail. When I write, I draw a line between who I am in that exact moment, and who the girl is I am writing about. To reread my writing is a more accurate view than staring back at myself in a mirror. The reflection of your physical existence is only a tiny fraction of the person you are.

To write is to truly see myself. To uncover the things I often don’t want to think about. To uncover the things I would prefer not to remember. I write because it is the rawest, most basic form of truth. In writing I am fully exposed. Writing is spilling secrets, admitting mistakes, cleansing conscious. In writing, I take subject x and give it life, even if that is only words between lines. In those words lives a reality, and by placing them there I am faced to confront it. With each sentence I unwind the twisted and confused.

For me, thoughts are intangible when they exist only within your mind. Writing something down makes it real; there is an acknowledgment that an event took place, that you felt a certain way. My writing does not have to be read by another person for this acknowledgment to be validated. Writing allows me to remember the details of how an emotion really felt. Sometimes we forget what the happiest day of our lives felt like, or what being truly depressed feels like. It is a way of reminding myself how much better off or worse I’ve been, and it’s a way to record how I’m currently feeling, so as to remind my future self one day. It is important to remember all the people you’ve been, all the ways you’ve felt, all the things you’ve wished would passed and all the things you wished would never end. In writing I remind myself of what I want in life, who I want to be, how I plan to arrive there. My writing is like a giant sticky note of my life.

In writing I forgive. I heal. I vent. I praise. I question. I spill. In writing I release everything within myself so that there may be room for more. Memory is so incredibly faulty. It changes with time, and the more time that passes the harder details are to arrange. Details can become lost. We often replace them with new details without even realizing. I don’t want to lose the details of my life that I love. I don’t want to hear the same story so many different ways that I can’t even remember how it first went. Writing is the original copy. It’s also a paper trail to everything that came before this very moment.

The last fifteen years of my life are locked in a chest in my childhood bedroom. I’ve been a compulsive writer for as long as I can recall, and I have filled thousands of pages with my thoughts. To read my most personal writing as an outsider isn’t the same as me rereading it. I know who I was in that moment, during that time, and there is a connection with those words that another person can’t have. I’d like to be published one day. I think that’s part of the reason I started writing. My first journal was in third grade, and I think a part of me, even at that age, knew to start writing down my story. In hopes of one day having enough work to pile together into something between hard covers. No lined pages. No spirals as the bind.

To completely over generalize, so much happens in a life. The moments that mattered most in mine are hibernating in that chest until their time arrives. It is my task to figure out what comes next- how to translate my writing into a story that reaches beyond my own life. A story that closes the gap between the writer and the reader. Words that allow my stories to become yours. The ultimate goal will be finding the best way to articulate the emotions I’ve experienced over people and events that were personal and unique to my own life, into words that can be transferred into the reader’s life, your life.

We are all experiencing the same condition, the human struggle. My writing is an attempt to show that no matter how our individual experiences differ, we’re all in it together.