My dear friends, you’ve let me go on and on about myself for quite a while. I’m hoping for some answers from you today. It’s true that a lot of writers are avid readers, and I’m humbled and grateful that you show up to read these posts. I truly am.

But my question to you is, why do you write? What was the thing that happened that made you want to pick up the pen, or grab the lap top and start writing?

And then, because I know what such beginnings look like, what did you tell yourself that kept you writing? I really want to know. You and I come from completely different backgrounds. We live in different parts of the earth and different climates. We eat different meals and carry different spiritual beliefs and traditions in our bones. But we are alike in that we want to write. No matter how different our points of view, we share a universal truth that what we have to say must be captured even if it is never shared. What drives you?

Did you write secretly and get discovered or have you always written? Did you see something that you thought, “I can do better than that?” or just embark on a journey to see where it would lead? Did you have to overcome disparaging remarks? Or were you gifted from the get-go? Please tell me, because I am really curious.

Were you like me and thought, “No one’s listening! No one lets me speak, but if I don’t release my thoughts somewhere, I think I might explode.” How did you decide what to write about? Did you hear a line that burst into a whole story in your mind?

What is your process? Do you journal till something really clicks and then post it somewhere? What emboldened you to share what you wrote? What obstacles did you have to overcome?

I continued writing even after it landed me in the principal’s office, later in counseling, and later still under the guidance of a social worker. As an artist in college, I was more upset about my bad English grades than failing Visual Organization. Even when I was told by my college prof that my writing was crap, it didn’t stop me. I’d already discovered something beyond literary aspirations, that she never addressed.

Writing kept me alive. Had I been then who I am today, I might have pointed out that her literary idols had all committed suicide. They proved that being notorious is not a key to longevity but writing for self can be.

Very few people ever acknowledged my writing (except when I wrote things that upset them and got me in trouble. I’m glad I took the artist detour, or I would have missed out on what informs a large part of my writing today. Art gave me a visual language of symbols and icons

While staring at cartons of old journals, I think about the years of time encapsulated. I’d written nearly a thousand pages before I became a legal adult. Writing was on again off again for years. Having written thousands of pages and millions of words, a question surfaces. If no one ever sees the journals, was it worth all the time they took? If no one ever reads them, were they worth writing?

Having grown up in a household that was described by my counselor Cherie as The Bar Scene in Star Wars (original movie) it’s safe to say that writing kept me sane. Truth really is stranger than fiction. Probably why I stuck to writing truth all these years.

It’s been said that a child believes that the environment they’re born into is normal. Today, I want to contact that counselor and parse this out. Which parts of my life were so bizarre? What would have been more “normal”?

Journaling gave my life meaning. Writing about my circumstances helped me make sense of the world. It helped me think and identify feelings and thoughts and picture the trajectory and possible conclusions. It helped me realize that I didn’t like myself and figure out how to become someone I was happier with.

Writing out my days, my thoughts helped me learn to articulate strong and confusing emotions and notice patterns. As I pondered, observed and paid attention to different details, I learned to elevate my lifestyle. The journals helped me see where I remained stuck and measure progress. It reminds me of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come.

But enough about me. I really wonder how your writing has impacted you. Just for a bit, tell me about you. I look forward to your answers.

See you again soon!