Essay: WHY DO I WRITE?

There is not one answer. I was a voracious reader as a child. My parents encouraged my reading and it set me apart from my younger siblings … creating a solitary space that I needed to survive. I lost myself in the stories of others, they lifted me out of myself and introduced me to new ways of thinking. I loved the word pictures. I wanted to see if I could put words together and inspire others. I knew that I would write “when i grew up”.

As a young girl I poured out my secret thoughts into pretty diaries and hid the tiny keys. I have no idea where they are now but I would love to find them. I also kept journals of our family vacations, we have found one of them and I hope to find the rest. My Dad used to tell me that I was a good writer; he loved my letters sent home from college where I was studying to be an English teacher. He never saw the first draft. I would hand write them and meticulously re-write them, checking for spelling and grammatical errors, just short of diagramming the sentences. (Boy that will date me, won’t it).

I love the fact that my mother is the record keeper of her motor home group; she keeps notes and crafts detailed scrap books of their various trips. She uses her monthly calendar to keep a daily account of everything that goes on in her life and her immediate family ~ most of us need a magnifying glass to read her entries, it is amazing. My paternal grandmother, Grandma Goldie, wrote of the weather and made daily notations in a series of Five-Year-Diaries. My cousin has a whole collection of them and they are priceless. I have writing/recording genes on both sides of my family. How can I not write?

It did not surprise me many years ago, in a group setting, when I was told that I had been the groups’ scribe during a previous lifetime together in our Essene community at the time of Jesus. This thought comforts me. I have also visualized myself in what appears to be an Egyptian temple. In this scene I feel a sense of gentle pride from realizing that I “know” everything that every one in the room knows ... they may be the priestess’s, but I have all the secrets.

Another idea sounds so narcisstic that I am almost embarrassed to write it down, but I will admit to you that my life fascinates me. When I look at the twists and turns, the roads chosen, the people who came into my life at pre-destined junctures ~ as I trace how I came to be in this place at this time ~ it amazes me. It certainly looks orchestrated from here and deepens my spiritual beliefs. Although I was not consciously aware at the time, in hind sight I see … not a justification … but perhaps a purpose for my embarrassments and mistakes. Some small consolation.

Plus, I want to write it down so that my son may read it later and gain insight into his “ancient mother” and maybe even so that I can read it when I have forgotten the fascinating details of a life fully lived. The path I chose and the events I survived have indeed seen the demise of many a brain cell, but it has been worth the ride. I hope to tell you of them in the days to come.

* annette