Why Write

The first light breaks well before 6:00am now. I still love rising with the sun when I can, but the light is bright and life is in full swing by 5:30am. The roosters are crowing their heads off, the turkeys are gobbling along their morning path. I can hear the loons’ majestic and mournful sound in the distance on a neighbor’s pond. The birds are in a frenzy, and a hummingbird whizzes by my head to the feeder at our kitchen window. Spring is bursting with its crescendo of color. Our red maple is in full leafy bloom, and I close my eyes for a moment to thank this place I know as home now. A deep breath a moment longer, and I open my eyes again to the world around me. I’ve been writing about this place almost daily for a full year.

They say just sit down and begin. Just get your butt in the chair. Start writing and see what spills out. I’ve been writing my whole life. I’ve got a Bachelor’s degree in music, a Bachelor’s of science in nursing, and I’ve dabbled in many other things over the years. And the enduring thread that has weaved its way through every part of my life is writing. Even when the kids were babies, I briefly had a momblog with my friend, and had an article "published" on the infamous Scary Mommy website. There are those who gatekeep the title of writer, I know. But I am a writer because I write. I am a singer because I sing. I am a mother because I mother. I am fill in the blanks because I do that. 

I write because I love to see what I really think and feel. It helps me process emotions, situations, and my inner world. It brings to light so much of what gets buried in the busyness of a day. I made a commitment to myself last year that I would write my morning pages every day, or at least, most days. Notebooks initially filled up with grievances and worries, which I think was necessary sludge to get rid of. Over time it evolved into a more mindful and intentional process, and an unplanned gratitude practice. And it's evolved into this website and soon to be substack because I really like the idea of being able to record audio versions.

There's something that happens when I haven't written yet in a day. I get in these moods where I've done all the tasks I can tolerate. It's not that there isn't more to take care of, but something shuts down. If I wasn't pacing around the kitchen doing mindless things like wiping away some sticky spot on the floor near the trash can, then I'd probably be scrolling on my phone which I've been intentional lately about not doing. However, I get caught in this limbo, ping ponging back and forth from one side of my kitchen to the other. Restless. Searching for something. In the not so far reaches of my mind, I remember I had a busy morning, and I haven't written yet. The result of not writing is that the pinball motion of my trapped thoughts is now being embodied in my physical actions.

In my kitchen I am scattered, ungrounded, and lacking direction. My physical body is trying to shake out and release whatever is bouncing around in there. I can't ignore or distract my way out of this. I can only write my way out of this. And yet, for at least an hour I try to talk myself out of sitting at my desk and picking up a pen. "It's too late in the day; all my fresh thoughts are tired." "I'll pick it up again tomorrow." This annoying back and forth continues until I hear the voice of one of my favorite writers: sit down and stop not writing. And I know this will make me feel better. Something in me will settle. I will feel more connected to me if I stop making excuses and pick up my fancy new pen I bought at the local art store.

Some part of me immediately depressurizes as I take my seat. I light my special hand poured candle. I look out my skylight. I take a slow inhale and an exhale, and I begin. This is a gift I give to my aimless self. Time spent writing. Because what ends up flowing out once the pen begins to glide across the page are collections of thoughts I didn’t know I had back there, being sifted through like unpacked boxes in the attic. Forgotten treasures and some forgotten junk. There are new thoughts too. Wonderings and perspectives that hadn’t occurred to me. Past experiences now relevant in a new way, a different way. There is a bridge that connects from my pen to the inner depths of me where wisdom is mined, and ideas are offered. The more I write, the more my mind has come to expect this unleashing of ponderings.

If the entire day does go by without writing, I feel compelled enough to write a nighttime journal entry. When I’ve gone through tense times or experiences that angered me, upset me, or left me puzzled, I sat and wrote. I don’t have to hold back on the page. I can be angry, incredulous, and relentless until I get it all out of my system. I wonder about the periods of time where I had stopped writing so much. I was just out there letting all the worries and fears bounce around my brain and sometimes even into someone else’s.

Talking and venting is all fine and well, and even necessary, but there are those we know who take license to do this constantly. I’ve never found that incessant chatter and complaining ever resolved much, but it has definitely been effective in adding fuel to a burning fire inside of us. And may I add, our friends can only take so much. So, if we really care about them, we’ll give it a rest and pick up a journal. (There are caveats to this statement of course, always.)

When we do write our feelings, we see that there is no censoring, no need to clarify or over-explain, and no worrying about hurting feelings. We’re not boring anyone with details or inducing internal eye rolls. Writing is sometimes an excretion process for the mind. It gets the crappy thoughts out of the head. Conversely, we can share every drop of joy and happiness here without worrying about being insensitive or “too joyful”. We can write freely, without judgement, especially from ourselves. We can write without the motivation of trying to change someone else’s mind. We can write whatever comes to mind. We can question. We can wonder.

Most often in the act of writing though, the truth is revealed. It’s the truth that is so typically obscured by all the noise and notifications of our days. Writing helps me get to the truthful place by emptying the bucket full of self-judgement, worry, and fear. It gives me the chance to get underneath. Healing through writing is an inside job. It helps me stop blaming or trying to control everything outside of me and empowers me instead. So, why do this writing thing? Cause it’s good for you. It really is. And it’s good for all those around you.

Have you ever had a writing practice? Have you ever experimented with stream of consciousness writing? I challenge you to a 7 day stretch of writing for 15 minutes each day. See if you notice any small shift. Observe what comes up and out on your page. And please come back here and share!