Lately, I have had a lot of friends and family ask me why I decided to start writing on Substack.
Good question.
I hate to admit this, but I haven’t had a very thoughtful and ready answer to give.
The question usually (honestly) takes me by surprise.
Thus, I have been asking myself why it is, I have chosen to write? What is my honest answer to this question?
I have been writing for expression for as long as I can remember. I’ve always loved to write.
Letters, stories, journaling. Writing has always been my constant companion, my healer, my rational assistant, my helper in making sense of it all.
My data processor.
My partner in loneliness.
It’s also a form of art that I can actually do, unlike painting, sculpting, sewing, knitting, photography, crocheting, or crafting—in which I don’t have much talent or patience for, but wish that I did.
Like any art form, writing gives voice and meaning to life.
It heals a haunting wound.
It’s letting the air out of the tires.
It’s creating something out of the chaos. Refining it, sculpting it, painting a picture, piecing it all together to make something beautiful, or clearer or to remember, honor, celebrate or recognize. To give tribute.
It’s legacy.
It’s writing when you are angry, sad, lost, confused.
To teach. To educate.
It’s writing to share something that is too good to keep to yourself.
In my deepest, darkest moments in life I have always turned to words—books, quotes, sayings, passages, songs, poetry. These words have provided enormous comfort.
Shelter.
A safe place to escape to:
To lie in bed reading for days as a broken-hearted teenager. Those words, those books— just the salve I needed to mend my crumbled self.
Words move me, shape me, guide me, save me. They clarify.
They allow me to see things from another’s vantage point. Something outside of my own experience in this life. They help me understand, relate, recognize and honor someone else’s journey.
I have traveled the world through words. Places in the world I will likely never see in real life. I have experienced the culture, the food, the music, the history, the people in a way, that perhaps, I may not have even experienced if I had visited in real life.
The inside scoop.
Writing has aided me in defending my opinion, my position. To apologize, persuade, deepen a friendship, express my love, express my sadness, break down barriers, build barriers, heal me in my deepest grief, capture a moment in time. Lighten the darkness.
To say the things too hard to say in person.
To say the things that need to be said.
Writing is the great sieve of my life—allowing me to sift through the complicated parts until I find what matters most. The diamond in the rough sand of my mind. It refines. It adds polish to the dull and unformed thoughts.
When I write—my most intelligent, fair, honest, measured, scrutinized, and considered thoughts emerge.
Writing is a way to express my truth, my experience, my sincerity.
To come to an honest and confident conclusion.
To be the best version of myself. The most authentic rendition of me.
Time granted to weigh brashness against logic. Emotion against reason.
Whether I am consuming it or creating it—writing is my cure, my meditation, my medicine. A way of mending myself. Putting myself back together after being torn apart.
This is why I write.
I write, because, each week, someone texts or emails, or tells me in person how much my writing means to them. How much it helped. How much they could relate.
I write because I hope.
I hope to help someone feel seen, or understood, comforted, enlightened, moved.
I hope my writing will make you laugh on a tough day.
Or smile in recognition.
Maybe it will be the soft glow of a lantern leading you through a dark night.
Maybe it will be a balm to a wound.
A story that will live on in your memory forever.
Maybe you will see me. Understand me. Know me.
Maybe It will be my legacy to my family, my children and grandchildren. Instead of leaving behind jewelry, photos, crockery and heirloom quilts—I will leave them with my words, my thoughts, my heart.
Writing is how I love, it’s how I help, it’s how I live, hope, grieve, and heal.
“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”
—Enid Bagnold
I can't imagine not writing. How would I know what I think and make decisions?
You are such a great writer!