I think a fellow blogger did a post recently on why they write (I’m thinking it was OM over at Harsh Reality, but let’s be honest, my memory is shit these days, so I could be wrong).
Anyway, it got me thinking about why I write.
I’d love to be able to say it was something noble-sounding, like “I write to teach” or even “to share something with the world”, but I think the truth is a lot more selfish than that and there are more than one involved.
Let’s go ahead and get the worst sounding one out of the way. I write simply because even in a life surrounded by people, I often find myself lonely. I think I mentioned something along those lines in my very first post, although perhaps it wasn’t stated as bluntly.
Another reason is one I’ve heard others use, but that makes it no less true. It’s free therapy…or it could be, if I could ever bring myself to put it all into words…it was back when I was caring for my mother at the end and I wrote on a different blog under a different name.
I do feel like I need therapy, but not the kind they want to offer me where I sit in an uncomfortable chair for an hour talking to someone that probably couldn’t care less about me or my life.
I probably need some kind of group therapy, and if not for my social anxiety, that would be a great idea.
So I write.
I write to release my demons, or to appease them…I’m never quite sure which. I often don’t know if it’s helping or not, I just know I’ve always been driven to write out my pain. Maybe it helps my demons sleep better at night, I just wish they’d let me sleep, too.
My one less selfish reason is my family…particularly my daughter and Granddaughter.
The way my memory is going…well, I sometimes wonder how much of me will be left when my granddaughter is old enough to begin to really know me. So I write, so that maybe one day she will read my words and perhaps come to know the woman she called “Gammaw” in a different way.
I write for my daughter as well. For the woman that thinks she knows her mother so well but really doesn’t. She’s off living her own life right now, which is as it should be, but no one knows how much longer we have with anyone.
We missed so much in each others lives, perhaps I’m trying to give her the chance to hear it from the source, a chance I never got with my own mother.
Maybe it will only ever be me that reads my story. Maybe I write only for me and my demons. I suppose that’s ok, too, isn’t it?