why i write


June 12, 2009
I've been asking myself this question a lot lately, mostly in frustration. Then it was posed to me on The Bookaholic Blog and for some reason I felt compelled to answer. Riffing on Descartes, I said: I write, therefore I am.

True story. When I was a little girl I felt overlooked and misunderstood most of the time. I found comfort in books, my inner world, and writing more than anything else. I suspect that's why I'm a writer -- because I always imagined myself and my life differently in my head and was somewhat fixated on creating this alternate reality in which I felt understood, welcomed, important.

At present, I'm still not living in that new reality and yet, somehow, I never stopped writing. I certainly don't know any better. But I think even if it's your last breath you should say something, even if no one is listening. (In fact, writing this damn blog and all the blogs I've written for various outlets over the years has by and large felt like shouting in an empty room. And I certainly don't understand why I persist in doing it.) But I suppose that, whether or not anybody is listening, you stand to gain your own soul by finding your voice and using it.

You might even discover that you have something to say that nobody's ever said before.

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