On Writing

Writing About Family

Writing about family is complicated.  A very wise woman told me once that we should never write about people who are still living because it's unfair and could cause harm.

Another very wise woman told me that, in order to write my story honestly, I must have the audacity, the courage, and the arrogance to say that, "This is my truth and this is how I will tell it."

I'm going with Option B.


Why I Write

A few people have made comments to me about the raw writing style on this blog. I'm searingly honest and sometimes people wonder why.

Writing keeps me sane.  It's a response.  It keeps me from being too still or too silent.  It empowers me and helps me let go.  Oftentimes, this blog space is where I come to work through myself.  When I'm finished and I hit the "post" button, I am often better, letting the problem or idea fall from me.  I'm ready to leave it behind. Other times, I am searching for something, an idea that's distant and I can't quite grasp it.  I write around it, peeling back each layer until the core is exposed to me.

Writing is physical.  I love the slight weight of a pen in my hand when I gently press it into a clean, white sheet of paper.  Whether I am making a grocery list, to-do list, doodling, or coming up with a plan to end world hunger, I always get an internal burst of contentment from making an eternal mark where before, there was nothing.  When things are good, I write.  When things are bad, I write really fast.  I write, then I write, then I write, then I write.  I can write my way out of almost anything.

It calms me and makes me happy and I don't know why.  Maybe someone can study the brains of writers one day.  For now though, I need mine so that I can write my next post.