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I write because it gives me a world;
because I know on Monday evening at 7:00 pm I have my Bustle writing group, and I will see women I like; because writing gives me a framework for being in this world;
because, although I don’t think I am a writer, I do think I have a story to tell;
because I’ve spent way over ten years writing my memoir; because writing my memoir has given me a way to make my story, my past, alive;
because maybe writing has given me some resolution with my life, my story;
because I really do think I have something to say that can contribute to the world, and I need a way to contribute to the world before I leave this earth, and I don’t have skills like sewing or painting or a lot of other things;
because I want to leave my legacy, although I am one small person in this world;
because I’ve been through so much, although at the time it just felt like my life;
because I’ve come out the other end from mental illness;
because through writing I’ve put down the severe trauma I went through before I could read or write;
because I could not consciously remember any of the trauma, but putting words down helped the details of the story unfold;
because I wouldn’t have believed it myself if my voice hadn’t come through the pen, through my hands;
because I wish I felt good enough about myself to call myself a writer;
because I would like to play with words, really play;
because I would like to write away those critical teachers who tried to stop me;
because maybe I can believe I am a writer, and, by keeping my hand moving, I can find my voice to just keep writing no matter what I say;
because I am still here in this world.
