Why I Live to Write

Ever since I can remember, I thought about life and what it meant. I daydreamed every spare second I got, tried writing a series similar to Tomb Raider in a notebook for a month in second grade, and practically narrated my own life all the time.

I paid close attention to the behaviors of other people, their reactions that they expressed and the words that were captured only in their face, even when no one else seemed to notice. I thought about concepts so abstract and large that for a long time I felt miserably lost among all of my observations.

I remember going home every night and looking out my second story bedroom window at our 4 acre yard. Each night I wished I could go somewhere else, somewhere where my mind could thrive in concepts and creation. I thought that would be another world.

And although I never answered that question in my head, never decided what my true home was, I know now that what I had yearned for then, is literally at my fingertips as I write this.

What I wanted was no fairytale world, but a way to create my own, and live in them for a time. I never really realized this was writing. In fact, I don’t think I ever directly resolved that until I decided to write this blog post. It may very well be that the reason I’m so attached to the English language is because of that childish desire to be somewhere special.

When I write, I express who I am more than I do in person. Mind you, I’m perfectly sociable and lively in person, but who I truly am comes out almost only in written words.

Words are my home.

When I create, I snatch a piece of me and a create lovely (though sometimes dark as well) place to put myself in. I am restrained to no one world. I live where I want to, and meet many people, and discover many things.

It’s my realm, and my heart, and it all comes from myself. I take joy in knowing that I can become a creator of something beautiful and imaginative, and I hope someday that what I write can provide an escape for any reader from the toils of daily life, or maybe that they will be inspired in a similar way as I was.

Yet although my writing is not just for me but for the people who read it, I would not be me without it.

The words that flow from my fingers are like threads of my soul that I weave into different pieces of Earth. It is proof that I exist. But even more so it is comforting for me to be able to see who I am with my own eyes. I can feel my thoughts and experience a piece of my soul. It is physically there, and so I know that I am here, I am living, and with each sentence I write, I step deeper into the chasm of my existence.

Writing is my journey to learn who I am.

It will take my entire life, but it’s not about finding the end of myself and being able to sum up my existence. It’s about interacting with the soul I’ve been given, as if it is but a friend that I have yet to understand. I don’t aim to have an answer. I aim to connect with a friend.

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Rez Chick
    Apr 20, 2012 @ 21:54:13

    That is a beautiful story of why we all write. Thank you for letting your fingertips take us there.


  2. abigailkrocker
    Apr 20, 2012 @ 22:05:03

    Thank you. I always find myself trying to understand what’s around me. It can be frustrating, but it’s so much fun and makes me who I am. Writing is the only way I can make sense of things. Thank you for reading it and for being a writer yourself. I’ve learned some valuable lessons from you already.


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