Why I Write

I know, as an English teacher, I am professionally obligated to believe in the value of writing. But I think the love for writing is why I became an English teacher. There's nothing like seeing your words on the page. When a piece is finished and something that I can be proud of I feel like a creator, an artist, a craftsman. This must be the feeling that the musician gets when he finds the right bridge, or the carpenter when he drags his hand across the sturdy, beautiful table, or the designer when she steps back from her transformed space. This feeling of accomplishment and creation is the mark of God.

During my time in London, I disciplined myself to write more frequently than I ever had before. I detailed my walks down flower drenched lanes, my trips to neighboring countries, and my moments of emotional turmoil with gut-wrenching honesty. I would get emails from my prudent father warning me not to put certain details in writing for fear of "documenting" certain parts of my life that I wouldn't want my employer, future children, or the neighbor to know. And I know he's right. But now I realize that the extent to which I shared myself in that digital diary is in direct correlation to the degree that I enjoy reading them now, a million miles away from my European adventure.

When I write there is a double reward. First, I have the immediate satisfaction of stoking that creative energy that longs to formulate a real and timeless artifact as a testament to my existence. And second, I have the pleasure of returning to that thing many days, weeks, or years later and through the awesome power of language returning to that very moment as well.

But, if I were being honest, I am completely neglecting the sole reason that I write. Therapy. Writing provides the couch, the shrink, and the awkward pauses necessary to figure out my life. As I sit and search for the words to describe what it feels like to sit on the front porch, in a sweatshirt, with a cup of coffee and a friend, typing this, my ever anxious heart begins to rest and I realize just how good I have it.

So I write not as an intellectual exercise, not for my mother (who I am certain will be the only person to find my ramblings amusing), but for myself. I write for me.