Why bother?

Looking at Kai’s lime green box of Leggos, I imagine if I stacked all of my reasons NOT to write, one on top of the other, the colorful tower would certainly reach the ceiling. After all, a pile of clean laundry sits on my bed, waiting to be folded and put away. Today is Friday, which means I need to complete two reports for work. I just sent out Evite invitations for Elizabeth’s 6th birthday party. She wants a beach party and although we discussed a number of games and activities, I need to compile a list of supplies for them, as well as deciding what to send home with the kiddos as a treat bag. Once again, I vowed to complete all Christmas shopping by Thanksgiving this year and yet not one gift has been purchased so far. Emails from friends sit in my inbox unanswered. I feel tired, how is it that going on vacation provokes such exhaustion? Maybe I am getting sick and should rest my newly colored red head down on a pillow and take a quick nap while Kai sleeps? But Jenny did ask me to send her a picture of my new hair color…can I get a good shot taking the picture myself? Plus, what am I going to say? What happens when I sit down to write and nothing of value comes out? How long do I push through what feels like crap before I quit for the day? At least if I tackle one of the above tasks, I can claim victory over my list and triumphantly cross it off for today.

Writing remains on my mind, if not on my to do list no matter what the given day holds. And so I come back, time and time again to all of the reasons I DO write. I write because I remember my mom sitting down to write in our living room in Illinois. She sat in the rarely used, but quiet room with pencil in hand and a yellow legal pad on her lap. Wandering into the room, I asked her what she was doing? She looked so out of place to me. I was used to my mom bustling about in the kitchen or reading a novel at the end of the sofa in the highly trafficked family room. She told me she thought she would try writing a book and was just getting started today. I left her to write, and remembered feeling a sense of awe that my mother was sitting down to write a book. I write because I never did see my mom sit down to write in that yellow legal pad again. I write because I learned a few months ago that the story line is still in her mind, ready to be exposed on the page but she is waiting until retirement to dive into that venture again.

I write because I see my soon to be six year old daughter writing stories of her own now. The stories appear on the page like transparent wings flecked with silver fairy dust, beautiful, magically, and completely her own. My own breath quickens watching her discover the power of words on a white page. As she bends over her work, I silently pray she never lets go of the thread of creativity and expression, that she instead confidently grabs hold of each one that comes her way, weaving together a solid rope of expression in her life.

I write because it gives me an excuse to eavesdrop on nearby conversations. Like the two airport mechanics sitting behind me, while taking their break in the Miami Airport this week. I listened intently as one described their boss as “The Elephant Man” right before the smaller mechanic purposefully sent a lost traveler in the wrong direction.

”Now, what are you gonna do when he comes back saying he can’t find it?” asked the larger and more empathetic mechanic. “Well,” said the small one with a shrug, “then I’ll just send him down that-a-way. Only two ways to go. He’ll find what he needs eventually.” And they continued on, teasing each other about the Dixie cup sized coffee one chose to drink, and whether or not one donut a week is following the doctor’s orders. “It’s all about moderation,” argued the larger mechanic.

I write because for as long as I can remember, it has helped me to understand and navigate the world I live in, internally and externally. As a child I wrote about anorexic cheerleaders that committed suicide. Yep, that one was given to my sister as a gift when I was eight years old! Call out the psychiatrist please… Still, I worked through body issues on the page and not in my life. I write because that same sister insists that I should, and I want to believe her more than I’ll admit.

I write because it is always refreshing, exciting, frustrating, hard as hell, comforting, painful, insightful, boring, and available. I write because for some reason, even though my to-do list remains long, if I write a little each day, I feel accomplished, even if the writing isn’t my dream-perfect- powerful and descriptive narrative.