Why I Write

Is it why you write, too?

Photo by Alex Azabache on Unsplash

We may have completely different lives, you and I, but writing helps me build a bridge and connect with you.

I often wonder why I’m compelled to write and share pieces about my experiences and feelings and opinions.

I mean, who really cares that my minivan got stolen a few years ago? Events like that happen all the time, right? Why bother posting the details about how I called the police? Why share photos of the inside of my trashed vehicle after it was found? What’s the point of even putting that dribble out there?

The point is, years later, someone who’s just had their car stolen sees the piece at the very moment they need it. They see the pictures and they read the descriptions of the theft and they realize they’re not alone in this shit show that life can sometimes be.

As a writer, knowing my effort with words can make a positive impact on someone’s life is the best feeling ever.

Ever.

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I’ve said this before:

When readers go the extra mile to let me know they’ve gotten something meaningful out of my work, it’s almost like the clouds part and the sun beams down and everything’s right in the world.

This same thing happened after I had a suspicious result on a mammogram. As a way to process my own anxiety, I documented my journey through a biopsy (the lump was thankfully benign) and shared it in a series of posts. And ever since it went live, I’ve regularly received notes from patients going through the same unnerving process, mentioning how good it felt to get a sense of how it might play out.

How lucky am I that I can take some of my worst moments and put them out into the world and hear back from others going through the same thing? The comfort goes both ways across this bridge.

Through writing, I find solace and peace. It’s soothing and meditative. It calms me and helps me focus. It requires me to distill my thoughts and channel them through my fingers (or, in this case, my thumbs, since I’m typing on my iPhone before I sleep. Yeah, yeah, it’s poor bedtime hygiene to type on a phone before bed, I know. Believe me, that’ll be another post).

I don’t know where I’d be without the ability to write. It’s my absolute favorite thing to do. Even when I’m working on a painful or complicated (or frustrating) subject, I live for the moments I get to swim in letters and sentences and paragraphs, losing myself in the buoyancy that comes from reflection and meaning and purpose.

Tonight, after having posted a researched piece about International Overdose Awareness Day, I heard from a parent whose child almost died due to overdose. The parent, who I don’t think has yet spoken about their family’s experience, told me it felt cathartic to reach out to me via private message and share their relief that their child survived.

I mean, can you even believe that?

Their child almost died, yet they take the time to reach out and give thanks for words I happened to pull from my head.

How is it possible that I get to do this work every day, reporting on things I witness?

My eyes are getting heavy now, so I’d better shut down for the night because I feel the typos coming on — hot & heavy.

I don’t know who needs to hear this tonight, but maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re a frustrated writer wondering if what you put out there will ever make an ounce of difference. I’m here to tell you with 100% certainty it will.

Write what works for you. Write with your authentic voice about the stupid little things that others might not give two squats about — the little things that send you into laughter or tears or the therapist’s couch.

Write what moves you. Don’t worry about it being too mundane, too overdone, too boring, or too specific to you.

We all crave little peeks into each others’ lives, you know? Each time we write and share a piece of our existence, we build a bridge for those readers eager to briefly step into our world.

How incredible is that?

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