Why I Write
The only two entries in my diary when I was five read, “Today was a bad day” and “today was better.”
Clearly, I wasn’t the best at writing for myself and got bored pretty quickly as demonstrated by the dozens of diaries I have started and neglected over the course of my life. The only reason I start them in the first place is when something crazy happens to me and I want to document it or one of my close relationships blows up in my face and I don’t know how to talk about it, so I have the sudden and debilitating urgency to write it down or I’ll explode!
Then, life gets boring again and I don’t feel that urgency nibbling at me anymore until the next crazy thing happens, which apparently was living with my dad’s brothers when I was seven, according to my diary. My parents had recently split so my time was divided between the house where I grew up and my uncle’s “poop house” as I so kindly labeled it at the time. If I hadn’t written that down, I never would have remembered feeling that way. When I think about that period of my life now all I have are fond memories. This is yet another reason I write: to remember.
My diaries have grown fewer in number over the years as I became drawn to a new art form: the written letter. I don’t remember the exact day I wrote my first letter, but I can guarantee it was because something upset me greatly. The only time I ever write letters (or nowadays notes on my phone) is to express messages I have trouble articulating aloud. Either I don’t know how to say it or what I’m saying requires the thought and editing that only writing permits. As a kid, I wrote letters to my dad when he was angry with me, because I knew if I tried to talk to him in person he wouldn’t let me finish or I would break down crying as most kids do in the face of their father’s wrath. Sometimes I don’t even know how I feel before I start writing, I just know I’m feeling a lot of things. By the end of the letter those feelings aren’t so jumbled and confusing anymore. They finally make sense and I can move on whether I send the letter or throw it away.
This transition from diary entries to letters marks an interesting evolution in the nature of my writing. I am more diligent now about writing to other people than I am about writing to myself. If I look carefully at the writing I have done for my classes (especially in the writing minor) my work resembles—in a sense—a letter, because I am writing to an audience outside of myself and much like Orwell, my motivation is to change their opinion on a matter or explain my perspective. In fact, I chose to write an open letter for my re-purposing project, because that is the easiest way for me to express myself. When I have a specific person or persons in mind, with a set and determined message I need them to understand, I create my most compelling work.
The open letter I wrote to the girl who bullied me in middle school about my fair skin was the first time I really felt that people heard me. While it was addressed to her, it was directed to my larger group of peers who didn’t seem to understand that their negative criticism of my skin only makes them perpetrators of the beauty standards that marginalize us as women to less than we are. My whole life I’ve struggled to answer questions like, “why are you so white?” and “do you even try to tan?” It wasn’t until I wrote the letter that my friends even realized I was deeply affected by their commentary.
So, why do I write? There are a million reasons under the stars to answer that question. I write to remember. I write, because it’s fun. I write to express my anger in letters that I will never send. The list goes on, but mainly, it helps me make an argument and convey it clearly and loudly. It’s strange, but I sometimes feel louder writing than I do talking and for this reason writing is my most effective form of communication.
I was not born a good writer as clearly demonstrated by my childhood diary entries nor do I think I am a great writer by any means, but the need to write anyways tells me something about myself and it’s that I write, because it makes me feel whole again. Words are like a soothing balm that has the healing power of a voodoo queen. They can make any bad situation appear not so bad anymore, because as soon as I put those words on paper this magical thing happens. All of those intangible feelings and emotions I felt are suddenly tangible. I can see them and get a handle on them. Words take my fears and drag them from the dark recesses of my mind into the light of the blank white page in front of me. That’s it; they’re out there now. My message has been heard.