There are those of us in the world who are just a little more introspective than others. There are those of us in the world who like to think things crazy and process every little event and then do it again. There are those of us who are so very observant of the world around them–the tiny details that make the world go round–and the people who inhabit the world, especially their idiosyncrasies. Those are the people who become writers.
I have been mulling over the reasons of why I write lately, and I know you are wondering the same thing, “Why does this woman write? Doesn’t she have better things to do with her time? Isn’t she busy chasing after kids all day?” Well…yes and yes. I write because it is a part of me.
I have always been a writer for as long as I can remember, starting waaaay back in Kindergarten. I wrote and illustrated a little “book,” entitled, “I Like You, Do You Like Me?” Guess it was the beginning of my interest in self-esteem/psychology/friendship.
I kept journals and diaries in my childhood and teen years. The cute kind you bought at Hallmark with the padded cover and gilded pages, and the tiny lock and key. Back then the dates were pre-written to say, 198_. I filled them in and covered everything from what I was wearing to what I wanted to wear to what my crush was wearing. I wrote about the “mean girls” and the songs I liked on the radio–Madonna, mostly.
I wrote letters to my grandmother who always wrote back, telling her of the things I was doing and who I was doing them with and how my parents really made me mad sometimes. I had a childhood pen-pal, Erin who moved away to Detroit and then to Chicago, exchanging blurbs about our crushes and our friends. Some of these letters were pages and pages long! I still know Erin–she lives down the road from me now–how fun is that!
I wrote boring things in college. Case studies, clinic notes, and journal article synopses. I tried to embellish them by adding details about the patients I worked with and would get my hands slapped by the nursing instructors, “Stick to the facts–and no names–use initials!”
When I was out on my own, I started a memoir of my mother’s mental illness. It’s still there–cataloged in the binder I purchased when I was 23–waiting for me to finish it up. I fear if I do, I may “come down” with a mental illness of my own.
And inside me are so many more stories to tell…the first loves, the last loves, the questions I have about life and myself, the dreams and hopes and the impediments of getting them. Finally.
I write because I am human. I write to learn. I write because I want to learn about human behavior.