What Is Your “WHY?”

Why I am a writer

It got official when I received my first diary in third grade. It came with a little lock and told me that what I had to put down might be worth guarding. So, I wrote.

In 7th grade, my English teacher insisted that we journal.

If only she knew!

My two or three lines from third grade grew. I filled notebooks.

Then in 10th grade, I made a move and threw out my stack of journals. Unfortunately, in my head I thought no one cares about this!

There may be some truth in that statement, but tons of regret. What is it I said back then?

I became a newspaper reporter, then a journaling mom and a poet. During my third semester of my MFA I was in a poetry workshop and a colleague said, “Writing saved my life.”

To which I replied, “Bullshit.” I know hyperbole when I hear it.

“I’ll prove it to you,” was his reply. He overwhelmed me with works by James Pennebaker.

This was followed by my adventure into producing and conducting writing workshops for veterans.

My poetry colleague was a veteran and his story of writing as a lifesaver became painfully clear. My work with veterans further emphasized my love of language, especially the day I stood in the entrance to a group meeting of homeless veterans.

They were living in a local shelter and spent their days working menial jobs, pursuing therapy and house-hunting. When they got back to the shelter they just wanted to plop onto a L-Z Boy and chill in front of the television.

My appearance at the house meeting was to convince them to try my writing workshop.

The executive director did everything but roll his eyes at my proposal. He said the last thing they would want to do is sit down and read or write poetry. If I didn’t get 8 volunteers, there would be no reason to run the workshop.

I stood in the doorway sweating. Every guy in the room was big and not the same race as me. I thought about leaving before I was called.

Instead, I prayed, “Give me the words.”

And as I stepped in front of 65 men these words came to me, “I will never know what it is to be a 6-foot man of color, but you will never know what it is like to be a 5-foot white woman.”

“Words are all we have to form that bridge. If you would like to learn more about how to use them, I am offering a writing workshop every Tuesday evening for 8 weeks.”

Then the executive director asked if anyone who was interested would raise their hand.

A dozen arms reached up.

I nearly cried.

The executive director met me at the door as I was leaving, and he was hopping up and down with excitement.

I would like to say numerous published authors emerged from my workshops, but I cannot. What did happen was equally as amazing. Men told heartfelt and brutal stories, listened to poems that made them break out in goose-bumps and then shared each other’s burdens.

It was beautiful.

~~~~~~

I discovered blogging in the early 2000’s, and the adventure continues. This morning, I spent writing about two company’s collaboration, and as dry as it sounds, I was invigorated by the quest. Two hours flew by and I found myself crying about one of the founders and his legacy.

I write because I have to; like a morning dip in the lake, it makes me feel alive.