Why I Write

Last month, the very lovely Christina Rozelle (author of the forthcoming novel, The Treemakers) invited me to do a recent blog-hop with the topic: Why I Write.

This month, I’d like to offer up two renditions of the reasons why I write, one of which is a true account.

So, why do I write? . . . Hmm . . . You know, I often ask myself that very question—

Wait—no I don’t! I NEVER ask myself that question. I’ve never actually given much thought as to WHY I write. WHAT I write, yes. WHERE I write, perhaps. WHEN I write, of course! WHO I write about . . . maybe, it depends. HOW I write, erm, well . . . rarely.

But WHY? Never.

It’s a good question, though. What makes some of us writers, authors, storytellers, pseudo-dreamspinners for a readership?

I don’t know about you, but I suspect my first reason all started when I was three.

Yes, I said three.
As in “years old.”

Why three? It was the age at which I learned how to read.

Account #1:

I’ve been told that my grandmother used to sit me in her lap and help me read, pointing my finger to each and every word as she read them aloud. I was, of course, too young to remember this, but apparently things took off from there.

Like wildfire.

In my youth, I was a voracious reader. I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. In school, I literally sailed through the “reading level” books; not even halfway through the school year, I’d get to the end of the levels and ask the teacher, “Now what?” In first grade, I was slated once a week to read—out loud—to the third grade class.

And the reading never stopped, all the way through school to today.

Now, couple this with an imagination that, if I didn’t rein it in, would come exploding straight out of my brain, and anyone caught in the flying shrapnel would certainly get injured. I pretended anything and everything I could wrap my head around. In play, I literally slayed dragons and rode horses and hung around with my “imaginary friends” in the woods, time and time and time again.

And the pretending never stopped, all the way through childhood to today.

No. Seriously. I still pretend. I do. Through writing. I pretend, create worlds, “play” with imaginary people (sometimes creatures), and because I’d read so much as a child, into adolescence, into adulthood, I’d learned—through osmosis, I suppose—the ins and outs of how stories are supposed to flow.

And I’ve successfully managed to intertwine the two!

What does that equal? Storytelling power!

So there it is, my first reason: I write, because if I don’t, I’d go stark-raving crazy without that creative outlet sparked by my love for reading, and my exploding brain would be responsible for way too many unintentional injuries.

Imagination can be such a dangerous thing. Wield it with care.

And so now, here’s: Account #2! The old woman pushed me to it, I swear!!

1 comment:

  1. I find that the answer I must give is "I write, therefore I am."