Why I Write

It started out as journaling. A way of getting the swirling thoughts, memories, and ideas out of my head to control the vortex that was sucking me under.

But I needed more.

I needed someone to read what I had written and tell me I wasn't crazy. To validate me.

Initially the only person who read it all was my therapist, the first one. He didn't tell me I was crazy. He told me someday there would be a book in it all. I loved that I idea, but I thought he was crazy.

Later I started letting my husband read it. Once he could work through the pain, he too said, there is a book here. Something to really help other people.

I kept writing. Kept sharing in a limited way, wanting to share more, but unsure of my motives. Was I seeking praise? Did I just want to be the center of attention? Or did I just want someone to know the real me?

I never seriously thought about it helping anyone else much. 

I wrote an article for a small magazine about the abuse and coming through to the other side. It was published anonymously. I edited ferociously. It was true, but not true.

I started a blog. Innocuous stuff at first -- books, recipes, random thoughts, scripture references. I joined a few memes. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but it helped. It made me happy, and it didn't seem to be harming anyone.

Slowly I began getting down to the nitty gritty. The nasty, gut wrenching (although still edited) reality of the abuse. Names were obliterated to protect the guilty. I was terrified of being called a liar -- of the world caving in on me.

Instead I got words of affirmation for my strength, courage, resilience. Words I still have trouble applying to myself. I got comments from others in pain; other people who felt strengthened by reading my words.

Now I write because it is a necessary part of who I am. It is the real me. I still worry about reactions and ramifications, but not as much as I used to worry.

The idea of a book seems less crazy, but I've figured out I can't "do" fiction. It feels too much like the lies I lived with for all of those years. So I find a way to tell my truth; to honor myself; to do those things without seeking revenge, but rather to seek healing for myself and, hopefully, help for others.


(This post was prompted by the following from Write on Edge:
Think for a few moments about why you write.
Then think for a few moments about why you’re writing your work-in-progress (or works-in-progress for so many of us.)
Do the answers to those questions make you feel excited? Motivated? Confused?
We discuss the hows of writing week after week, but the whys are what really keep writers picking up their pens, opening their laptops, and editing their words again and again and again.)