I write stories because they’re important to me. I reckon that I would have kept a diary to pour my heart into when I was younger had I not been worried that my privacy would be violated and all the deep things I had written would be cheapened in the reading and sharing of them with others.
I want to remember things that happen, how my life is right now. What the children do and say, the small everyday things as well as those life altering things that happen, that need to be worked through and processed. In many ways after we got married and when the children were younger I would write letters that expressed what our lives were like then. The events and emotions that swirled around me at that time. Taking photos also helps to jolt memories and bring back thoughts long forgotten. Because I sometime struggle to see my glass as half full, scrapbooking and blogging remind me of the good things. Often hubby would come home from work and ask me about my day and I’d say that it was terrible. Meanwhile something fairly small had happened (often just before he walked in the door) and I’d allowed that to colour my recollections of the entire day, whereas actually those 5 minutes of yucky shouting at the children were totally overshadowed by many hours of nurturing, teaching, playing and just loving them. So often when the days run into each other and every ordinary day is so much like the day before it and the day after it, we forget the sunshine. The highlights, the things they said to express love, thanks, make me laugh etc.
So often I forget and I hate that. I want to remember all the little details and delights of my life. Even in the worst of days there is always something good that can be found of you look hard enough.
I tell my stories because I am the only one who can. No one else remembers what I do, sees what I do and is moved by what moves me. Often I will burst out laughing by something I see. Yesterday it was a poster in China town. A skinny blonde model with the highest heels and short pink socks. Let me say that only the Germans can get away with socks and sandals. Even remembering it now I am smiling. Next week that thought would be so far removed from my mind, replaced with the next thing I see or experience. No I didn’t take a photo, no I didn’t even tell anyone, but I appreciate that my oldest would have understood my humour.
I write because I want to remember.
I write because life is good.
I write to give context to our lives and happenings.
I write to process issues that I am dealing with.
I write because to read what life is like now, in 10 year’s time will take me straight back and I will be able to enjoy it all over again with the perspective that change affords me.
I write to be creative and to share my thoughts and experiences with anyone who cares enough to read it.
Why do you write?