Why I Write

As an adolescent, in a time where my family was falling apart, I was an emotional mess. I watched my mother and sister leave, what was once our home where I stayed with my father. I was sad, angry, and alone all at the same time. As I look back now, even though I thought my struggle was unbearable I can't say it was any more than others of my generation were facing and far less than many. But, to a spoiled and angry preteen all I could see was the pain before me.

It was in this period of time that someone close to me saw my anger, and offered some simple advice that I still cherish today. I was angry with someone close to me who was also experiencing his world falling apart. I was ready to let him have it with both barrels, as they say around here. My mother had picked me up that day, and I was telling her of my anger. I easily made my case proving, in my mind, that I had no blame in the situation.

My mother, being the crafty woman she is, just listened as I carped on. She offered sympathy for the hurt I felt, when appropriate, but never took a side in the argument. Then once I had calmed down to a reasonable level, she told me that I should write a letter to the object of my ill temper. Then once I had it written out, read it to make sure that the words on paper matched how I really felt.

I did as she suggested, and I found that the first draft was terrible, in that, it wasn't even close to expressing my thoughts and needs. By the third draft, I started to see that some of the things I said were just hurtful and mean. By the fifth draft, I wasn't even angry anymore. I wrote a lot of letters after that day. The letters turned into keeping a journal. Then I found a love for poetry and used it to pour out of myself so much hurt.

So why do I write? It is because, at an early age, I found that the written word was magical. That is contained within the process, a light much brighter than any darkness I have ever seen.