An author in my writer’s circle posed a deep-dive question: Why Do You Write? This question has been asked of me before, though not often. This time, I realized that my answer didn’t really tell the whole story. My father was in publishing and an amazing story teller. Years before I discovered Mark Twain and Sir Francis Bacon were part of our family tree, and that William Shakespeare is one of my ancestors, my easy baked answer was, “I can’t not write.”

I didn’t know why that was true. In sixth grade I was hardly thinking of making my mark on the world. What writing gave me was license to think my own thoughts. It didn’t occur to me then that I didn’t have to wait for a creative writing assignment to transport me to some mental realm known only to me. I never thought about writing outside of school until I read the diary entries of a young woman named “Alice”. (As in, Go Ask Alice)

Alice flipped a switch in my thinking, that maybe a budding teen could say something important or worthwhile. To start, I was gifted a paperback book-sized key-lock diary. After filling it up, I graduated to notebook paper. [To this day I go through a 100-page composition book every two or three months.] Whether this ever got published or not (preferably NOT) this Alice revelation arrived just in time, allowing me a way to deal with the time between puberty and graduation in the mind-numbing dullness of living in a small town.

My friends Lisa and Robbin indulged my ridiculously long letters and fantasy stories by returning equally ridiculously long missives. Each of them passed creatively penned pages to me in the hall between classes a few times each day. Usually, we’d pick up where the other left off. It was fun having the story overnight —more time to write! Equally exciting was anticipating what they had written. Sometimes letters were filled with anger, angst, frustration, or plans. Occasionally, those landed in the wrong hands. I learned that if it was written down, someone believed it.

My writing was hardly encouraged by adults. In fact, writing my perspective on paper got me into trouble more than once. I landed in the counselor’s office numerous times—not my intended audience, but the most recurring. Notes were written in my permanent file. I couldn’t not write. I had to express all the overwhelming feelings I had, even if no one listened.

One year, a young female social worker named Mary Lou was assigned to our school. I was assigned to her for meetings a few times a month. Because I sucked at verbal articulation, I wrote her long letters filled with questions. She always wrote long letters back addressing every one of my points. When she left for the army, I was deeply grieved.

I found an ad in the back of an underground newspaper for international pen pals. I had two: Steve Perfect from London and Sheena Luther from Liverpool. Stephen asked a few cryptic questions and once I wrote him, he never wrote back.

Sheena and I wrote for five or six years. She often regaled me with pranks that she and her friend Norma played on neighborhood shopkeepers. Norma would carry an empty shopping bag into the store and pretend she had a pet budgie inside. Cleverly, Norma spoke to her bird and then made bird noises while gently shaking the bag. Whether the stories were true or not, I don’t know, but I laughed a lot and enjoyed her effort.

Because my writing got me into so much trouble, I sometimes drew cartoons with coded messages. After high school, few people were interested in responding in kind to exorbitantly long letters. Undeterred, I wrote awful poetry and pages of journal entries. To what end? Writing doesn’t really come into its own until you hit a million words or so. [Something you could easily knock out in 2740 words a day for a year.]

Writing is incredibly therapeutic. For the next ten years, it would be the most beneficial therapy I could afford. Writing with someone in mind made me feel less lonely. Hand-written letters were still an acceptable mode of communication in those days. The additional benefit of writing letters longhand was noticing my thoughts and increased self-awareness.

For many years I was a crisis writer, journaling only when my life was in chaos, not the disciplined daily writing of the past eighteen years. Not because I couldn’t write, but because a crisis was its own prompt.

It was a good fit, because there were many years of turmoil. However, because of that inconsistency, it’s hard to know exactly when I crossed that first million-word mark. Now, I write a million words every couple of years. Certainly many writers surpass me in this.

What kept me writing consistently was witnessing the impact of my words, getting paid, receiving awards and recognition. It made me want to be more careful about what I said, how I said it and to whom. It made me consider my intention; did it need to be said? Was it kind? Did it encourage? What do I want my core message to be? Writers have a huge responsibility, after all. Many years later, I still love it.

But today, I’m talking specifically to my writing readers, the ones whose blogs I’ve visited, or books I’ve read or heard about. (You know who you are!) I’m truly curious. Why do YOU write? I’d love to hear your story. Drop your tales and comments in the comments box.

I look forward to hearing from you. See you again soon.