Why I write.

I remember when the teacher would give us ten or fifteen minutes at the beginning of class to write.  Many of my classmates groaned and complained.  Not me.  I loved it.  I downplayed my excitement, but this was one of my favorite times of day.  

Usually, she gave us a prompt.  

Describe your favorite room in your house. // my bedroom, obviously.
Write a letter to your mom, dad, cousin, friend, neighbor.
What is your dream vacation?
If I were President I would…

Some days I picked up my pencil and began writing without hesitation.  My pencil moved on the paper more quickly than I thought possible – I was releasing the flood of thoughts swimming in my mind.  The teacher called us back to class and my heart sunk.  I wanted more time. I have more to say. How can I possibly describe my trip to Iceland or Spain in ten minutes? 

Other days I stared at the spaces between the wide-ruled lines in my journal.  

What do I possibly have to say right now? I don’t feel like persuading the principal to change a school rule or describing my favorite animal. How can I write when all I can think about is my soccer game tonight? I wonder if so and so thinks I’m cute? 

Whether I wrote swiftly or not, I cherished journal time.  Likely unaware of this at the time, I yearned for a moment of stillness in the day.  It was like a mini retreat from the busyness– 

an opportunity to liberate my feelings and thoughts,

an avenue for checking in with the condition of my spirit,

a tool that helped me communicate and express more confidently and freely

and

a homecoming of sort, that put me at ease, even on the most demanding of days. 

And writing is still those things for me.  Some days I write so rapidly that my hands can barely keep up with my thoughts.  I might even start recording my thoughts in my phone while in the car, eager to get home and put them on paper. I write to create. 

Other days, I stare at the white space.  I struggle to come up with one word.  I get frustrated with myself.  I write to practice self-love and patience. 

Some days I publish my thoughts, sharing them with you, hearing what you have to say, how you relate, what resonates with you.  And man, does that feel good.  I write for connection. 

Other days I realize that I am distracted and overwhelmed.  And writing is simply the window I need in order to see that.  I write for awareness. 

Some days I am overcome by the stories of our world.  I ache for every person’s story to be told and heard.  On those days, I write about people who have left an imprint on me.  I write to remember. 

Other days, I am sensitive to the needs of this world.  I am disturbed by the injustice. I crave change.  I write to challenge. 

Some days I feel defeated and weak.  I question my worth and my soul cries for restoration.  On those days I write to heal. 

Some days I spew out words, words that I would never have the courage to say orally.  And it’s messy and imperfect.  But it gives me space to work through feelings.  I write for freedom. 

Other days I am moved by the beauty around me.  I am in awe of my God’s creativity.  I yearn to express my gratitude.  And on those days, I write to thank. 

Some days I write for you. 

Some days I write for me. 

Okay, go pretend like you are in language arts class.  Take ten to fifteen minutes and tell me, dear one, why do you write?  If you do not write, tell me, dear one, why not?