Why I Write
Is it bad to say I write simply because I always have? Because it has become ‘what I do’ thanks to years and years of putting pen to paper? That’s probably not what I’m supposed to say. I’m probably supposed to say that I write because writing’s power carried me through an unbearably difficult childhood full of pain and struggling. But that wouldn’t be true. I’ve had a relatively easy life so far, and even if it was hard, I don’t think I would’ve relied on writing to work through the conflicts. Instead, perhaps I might’ve focused on the joy that my family brings me, and I would’ve found purpose in doing things I love like dancing. Not that I don’t love writing— I do — but I can only cry over a piece of paper for so long.
That is what writing can make me do sometimes. I string words together that make me feel things quite intensely, and sometimes I’ll write and cry for hours about one damn topic that I’ve already cried about. I am, admittedly, a crier. My mom frequently reminds me of one of the first readable things I wrote in preschool: a to-do list for the day. It included misspellings of various tasks like ‘go to school,’ and ‘play with lucy,’ and one infamous line that read “tri not to cri.” Even in preschool, anxiety had its grip on me, as was demonstrated by my daily tears. I’m not sure if I thought writing this in a to-do list would lessen my anxiety, and I don’t remember if I cried that day (I probably did), but as a writer/scribbler of three and a half years, it felt important to materialize what I was thinking and feeling, so I did just that.
I continued to write, partly because I liked how it made me feel and partly because I was good at it. I wrote all sorts of pieces; speeches, memoirs, and fiction accumulated in my portfolio. Not all of them were good, though. Once I wrote a report on frogs and toads and invented 90% of the facts. In third grade I wrote about a homeless girl who wanted to buy her mother a necklace. Looking back, that was probably highly plagiarized. But I kept writing, and I improved a great deal. With time and therapy, I even conquered anxiety and found strength and self-confidence.
Now that I have moved away from my family, I am back to being a crier, although not because I am anxious or sad. Mostly I cry now at things that make me happy— family pictures, stories of past vacations, and (embarrassingly) baby animals. Some of those things I write about and then set aside to make room for more emotions. As I grow, I’m learning that I feel things strongly. I worry hard and I love harder, but I tend to keep that private. Instead I come off as cold. I don’t feel cold inside; I feel chock-full of emotions, but I prefer to demonstrate utter unwavering confidence instead. Maybe that’s the more acceptable reason for why I write. Writing is a way to release those inner workings, to let them shine without being a crybaby or too sickeningly affectionate. You see, it’s okay to weep over an injury when I write about it. Crying happy tears about my grandmother’s love is acceptable when I put it on paper. Words give me a tangible reason to love or lament or worry. Sure, I’ve always been a writer, but that’s because I’ve always tried to seem far more stable than I am, and writing lets me actually feel and be unstable. When I write, my pencil tickles my heart to open like a butterfly’s new wings and it’s scary, but it’s needed, and it can be beautiful.
Maybe I would have relied on writing if I had a terrible childhood. Maybe I would have locked myself in my room and created fantasies in my notebook with the flowery ‘E’ in the corner and maybe that would have made me feel good about my life, not dancing or being with family. But for now, I think I’ll keep dancing and spending time with them and dedicating glowing essays to such joys. And I’ll dedicate essays to things that makes me sad or worried too. That’s what gives me blissful purpose—writing about what I feel strongly about. And could it be that this kind of writing, this purpose, is pulling my emotions out from inside for the world to see? I still hide my tears and worries in public, but I often catch myself smiling for hours after I write. Writing provides yet another emotion for me to feel intensely, but this time, I show it.
