Why do I write? It’s not like I need something else to do in my spare (or not so spare) time. I’m already too busy -- most days I can barely keep up with the demands of work and home -- yet somehow I squeeze writing into my life like an extra pound of flesh that really has no business fitting into a skinny pair of jeans.
So why do I do it? For one thing, writing is therapeutic. I like to hear myself talk in my head. I don’t need an audience. It’s fun. It’s natural. It’s cheap entertainment. I can write anytime and anywhere. I can write when my kids are sitting next to me hanging over my laptop or when they are fast asleep in bed. When it’s time for bed and 3-year-old Abby is scared of monsters and I promise her I will sit in the hallway until she falls asleep, I can take my laptop with me. The time flies, and before I know it an hour or two has passed. I don’t know where the time goes when I’m writing.
Sometimes I write on airplanes or in hotel rooms. It helps me feel connected to the people I love most when I’m away from home. In fact, some of my best writing about my family is when I’m away from them. My head becomes clear with a little distance, and I remember not to take the little things I love about my family for granted. And when I write on airplanes, it helps me not to think about the plane crashing or the fact that I feel airsick even though I took my regular dose of Dramamine. Writing keeps me calm.
I can’t remember a time I didn’t write. I started to keep a diary as a young girl, wrote my first “book” in the third grade, and continued to journal throughout my adult life, knowing I would write a book when the window opened and I had the courage and stamina to jump through it. Writing is addictive. And when the spirit to write is in my soul, sometimes I just can’t stop.
So as long as I can breathe and think, I plan to write.