Writer, Why Do You Write?

Why does a  writer write?  Why does anyone write? I have friends who cringe at the thought of writing an essay or any kind of paper. These people have been out of school for years and the thought of writing still terrifies them. But I, on the other hand, love the idea of writing essays and papers. I loved to do book reports. It combined both the joy of reading with the pleasure of writing.

Ok, yeah, I might be considered a little weird by the general public. But for me writing is part of my life. I couldn’t imagine not having the ability to copy my thoughts down on paper, whether it be for my own eyes or in hopes that the public will read what I have to say.

I’m not shy in my words. If I have something to say I’m not likely to hold back. I try not to offend or hurt others with my words and I surely don’t intentionally do so, but I also do not hold back if there is something I should say.

I write for various reasons, but mostly I hope that with my words I can help others or teach them methods of living that worked for me in dealing with life situations they may find themselves in. It is my hope to connect with other like minded souls who might read my words and feel they aren’t alone.

I felt alone for a lot of my childhood. There was nobody to understand me. I was a different child. I was quiet and very sensitive. Solitude was my salvation.

My favorite place to be in the summer was up in a tree stand in the middle of the woods with a radio, a notebook and a smooth writing pen. Poetry flowed onto the empty white pages as squirrels scampered around me on the forest floor.

Getting older and growing up changed very little in my life. I was still alone with only my thoughts and nature to keep me company. There were few people I trusted to talk to, few people I called friends. There are always students in school who are the targets of teasing and jokes, and I was one of those. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself or fight back. I just kept getting hurt.

Words were my comfort. I avoided others as much as possible. I wanted companionship, yet I was afraid to take a chance and be hurt once more. Words never failed me. Poetry came easily. Words flowed. I could write for myself and nobody would have to read them to make fun of me.

In time I came to realize I have a gift for words. Also, I can use them to share my story, to entertain with my poetry or to inspire with my thoughts. When I write, I can write for myself or I can write for others. I just know I have to write.

It is my hope that my words can bring hope and inspiration to others who are traveling the roads I have taken. I hope to leave trail markers and guides to aid their journeys. Perhaps I can help them avoid the pain I suffered myself. It is with this in mind that I write the words I leave here.

I want to help. I think in some way all writers do. We use our words to heal ourselves and then we use them to help others heal too. I want my story understood. But I also want to tell it to help others who feel the same way – alone and misunderstood.

I have a chance as I write these words to connect with others who are writers, who are empaths, who are women who love solitude. There may be someone out there who needs to know he or she isn’t alone in dealing with some of the life experiences I write about.

I don’t know why others write, but this is why I write.