The rain is beating down outside; after months of dry weather I’m mesmerized by the sound—rap a tap tap, rap a tap tap. My son will be awake soon so I hurry with a cup of coffee to the computer to tap out words before my quiet, creative window closes for another day.
After my son was born, I stopped writing for a long time. I felt writing, for me, was a waste of time. I told myself I was too busy, had more pressing things to do, couldn’t spend time on a silly hobby that was going nowhere when I should be focused on more important work.
“Hardly anyone reads your words.” “You’re never going to be a writer,” I told myself. “You’re a blogger nothing more; stop wasting time playing around.” “If you’re not going to ‘make it’ as a writer then you shouldn’t be wasting your precious time fooling with words.”
I lost the magic and the joy in writing and stomped out any words that tried springing up in my heart; so the words stopped bothering me—for a while, anyway.
I made the mistake of thinking I was writing for other people, not realizing that really, all along, I had been writing for myself. I thought if other people weren’t reading my words, they’d have no meaning, never considering how much they meant to me alone. “If I’m not going to make it as a writer, I’m not going to write at all I said”— and the words tattooed all over my heart and soul had a good laugh, knowing, I was made to write and write I must.
Before I could read, I requested a journal for my birthday (a Princess Jasmine journal with a lock, mind you). Since I didn’t know how to spell and write the words myself, I would dictate to my mother what to write for me. Even before I could do the most basic tasks of reading and writing, I had words already pulsing and beating in my heart that I felt, as a little girl, must be recorded.
So perhaps I’m not a real writer, simply a mere blogger instead. Perhaps I’ll never “make it” or be able to tell people confidently, “I’m a writer.” Maybe this is it, this quiet little space in a dusty corner of the internet is the only place my words will live out their lives.
I’m ok with that.
I’m ok, because I understand now that I’m not writing to be known as “a writer” or “to make it” or for other people at all. I write because I like the way the keys feel beneath my fingers as I stroke out words. I like the way black words pop out behind that tyrant of a cursor ever blinking on my screen, seeming always to ask, “What’s next? What’s next?” I like the way my heart races when I’m writing and the way my fingers tremble over the publish button.
I love the cadence of words tumbling one after the other into life and meaning. Even if no one else reads my words, I read back over them a million times myself like a mother who can’t stop looking and marveling at her newborn baby.
Am I a writer then? Beats me. But I’ll keep on writing, simply, because I want to.
Image Credit: jasmine-marie.tumblr.com
7 thoughts on “I Write Because I Want To”
YOU are a writer! Always have been, always will be. Your blog is one that I aspired mine to be like. I am a big fan. You have no idea how proud I was when you made your first comment on my blog. I told hubby that the woman I have read and is an excellent writer, actually took the time to read my words. I felt humbled and honored… I still do.
You ARE a writer! Some of us write because we have to; we were made that way. I’m so glad you didn’t let the negative words in your head win out!
You’ve resumed your love of writing and I’ve resumed my love of reading. All is right with the world. I’m glad you’ll keep writing cause I can keep reading your words 😊.
I think writing is a form of art…expressing oneself. There is a sense of accomplishment with every word you type. The completed page is like a beautiful canvas ready to be hung and admired. I love your blogs!!! Waiting and watching for the next one! ~ Rache’l Campbell
Kari, I really look forward to each and every one of the blogs you write. You are very talented and write such beautiful words. Thank you for sharing your special gift with me and others who read your words.
I for one am very thankful you didn’t give up on your writing and sharing that writing with us. You touch hearts with your words, and that is a gift. I can’t imagine you NOT writing because I’ve known for a long time now just how much writing means to you…after all I have some idea of just how many journals you’ve filled since that very first “Jasmine” journal. 🙂
I read your words 🙂 Thank you for sharing and putting yourself out there – that takes courage.
PS. I loved your title – reminded me of being a kid – I danced cause I wanted to, I wrote cause I wanted to, I played cause I wanted to.