I write because I love it. I always have.
I write because sometimes I hurt – and you – you always make me feel better. I lose my daughter – you tell me you have done it too. I feel like that yelling mom you avoid in the grocery store – and you understand – because you have been there too.
I write because sometimes, I am overjoyed. And when I am, you celebrate with me. You understand the euphoria associated with that first time on the potty. You ‘get’ the love I feel when I get an unprompted ‘I love you’ from a small person.
I write because you always remind me I am not alone. Even on the days when my husband just may get an ‘I quit’ note scrawled in purple crayon.
I don’t claim to be great at it. Passable, I’m sure, but not ‘wow-I-can’t-believe-she-wrote-that’ like some of you. Like Megan. And Amber. You people are T-A-L-E-N-T-E-D. And I say that with love, not envy. (Well, maybe a smidgen of envy – but it is good-natured-sometimes-I-wish-we-shared-a-brain envy.)
I write because it is a release, a welcome, a shared experience, an opportunity to laugh and cry and rejoice.
Sometimes it may be boring, but, well, sometimes I guess I am. And that is ok.
Why do you write?