Why I Write

Far back in the forest of my childhood stands a little house. Empty now, it has been forgotten by everyone except the oak trees and me.  Image

Once upon a time, though, its ramshackle rooms formed castles.  As my prolific imagination went to work, sunlight sifting through the decrepit roof gave birth to pixies and gnomes.  I believed.  Tales of their mischievous exploits soon danced out of my fingers and onto paper. They stayed with me until adolescence began to pick at the seams of my stories with sticky, insistent fingers.

I owe that little house a lot.  Inside its tumbledown walls I became enchanted by the written immortalization of thought and experience.

Today, the stories I want to tell run along slightly different lines:  hushed-up social justice catastrophes, travel memoirs, anecdotes on the adventure of living.  Yet my love for writing remains the same.  I want to discover, remember, and find out.

As a child, I wrote because my words lent me the beauty of another world.  As a woman, I write because they unlock the splendor of this one.

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “Why I Write

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s