Why I write

And why I can't stop.

The other day someone asked me what the purpose of this newsletter is. Out of the blue. Randomly. I didn’t have an answer prepared. How dare he!

And I don’t know if it’s the writer in me that just feels the need to expose my raw, bleeding heart 24/7, (even to people I don’t know well,) but I briefly looked inside myself and I gave him a heartfelt, deep, and honest answer. Which, looking back, didn’t just summarize the meaning or purpose of this newsletter, but it summarized the answer to the question “why do you write?”

But before I answer that, I’ll give you some context as to what’s happening to me when I’m not writing.

There’s weeks or months in the year that I’ll deny myself the pleasure of writing, simply because I am afraid. I am afraid of what will happen when I untangle the feelings I’ve been holding in my ribcage. Looking at yourself in the eye isn’t easy, and when you’re trying to understand internal processes you first have to look at the ugly, the painful, the dark. I’m sure you don’t like to look at bleeding wounds either. But then, I gather the courage. I have to, or else the words will build up and I’ll choke on them.

When I write, I ask Sadness to show itself, to come out where there's a bit more air than the recondite corners of my heart. I ask it to take my hands, show me where it hurts, and I tell it I’ll find the words to cure it. Sometimes, it comes out. Other times, it's Anger that shows up, uninvited as always. Other times Hope knocks on the door, and it is only when I'm brave enough to answer, that I am able to see beyond that singular moment in time. Sometimes I think I want Sadness because it's the most familiar. But what I truly need is Hope to show me that there's more light in the world than I've ever allowed in. And if that isn't worth writing for, I don't know what is.

But I also write because seeing yourself in someone else’s words is a window into companionship, into feeling a little less lonely. And I do think that when you have a gift that allows you to help others unravel their emotions, or make sense of complicated feelings, or even get to know themselves a little bit better, you must use it. I see it as your duty. For others, it may be painting, or acting, or teaching a psychology class. For me, it’s writing about what I’ve been through.

Ever since I started writing at 15, I’ve had hundreds of people DM or email me, detailing the ways in which my silly little poems or my rant-y essays have helped them leave a toxic relationship, or be honest about their romantic feelings towards their best friend, or simply understand that there is someone else in the world that has been through this one very specific thing and they are not alone. This occasional little ego boost isn’t the main reason why I write. And while it happens sometimes, I didn’t start writing to help people, either.

I selfishly started writing exclusively so I could help myself. I wanted to understand my own motivations for why I do the things I do, why I feel the things I feel. What, from my past relationships or current traumas, is leading me to make these decisions? What can I tell myself to help me feel better? What puzzle piece am I missing that will completely change the way I feel about this person? Is there something I’m struggling to understand that could radically make my life better, or my next relationship better? And I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even think I have one good one. But I’m trying.

Lisa Olivera put it best in an edition of her newsletter Human Stuff from Lisa Olivera where she talks about the power of writing as it relates to vulnerability and connection:

It’s through writing that I get to know what I think, what I hold, what I know and don’t know, what I long for. Joan Didion said, “I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” To write is to move toward knowing oneself more fully. And knowing oneself more fully is the place from which fire escapes for others are constructed.

One time I read a poetry prompt that said to write a poem about making myself the villain. And instead of writing about how I shattered some guy’s heart, I decided to find a part of my life I’m a villain to myself: writing. Sometimes it’s on purpose, sometimes on accident. So I wrote:

Are you dark, or are you just sensitive? Are you stuck, or are you clever? Are you helping yourself through your pain, or are you self-inflicting it? You force yourself to remember the raw, you press on the bruise, you lift the scab and watch the blood pour out. You turn your head back with your own two hands: look back, I bet you thought I’d let you forget, don’t move on just yet. And it’s all under the excuse that you’re doing your best.

So meta. But I think that right there is why I find writing so interesting and therapeutic. I force myself to look back at painful things, I relive them, I analyze them, I look at where I’m at right now based on how I feel about it, and then I find a way to get over them or at the very least move forward in that moment. If anything, writing helps me get to know myself better and discover little feelings and thoughts I didn’t know I had inside of me. And I think that’s cool.

(Do you think I may have over-answered his question?)

Let’s blame nostalgia.

There is so many moments from our past we’re not able to understand in the moment because we’re literally in them, and we’re drowning in worry or fear or anxiety. In the moment, it’s impossible to truly take them in. But when you’re out of them, you can see things you didn’t see before and find clarity in the distance. So I wrote a piece about why I write and how important it is to me, even through the pain. Mostly through the breakthroughs.

I carry Nostalgia around like a newborn baby, always cradling its head so it won’t fall. It is my biggest downfall—to keep remembering so much of what I want to forget. To pick at the scab and use the blood to draw a smiley face. To think of tears as fuel. I feel the need to make art out of my pain so maybe then I can call it worthy.

But it is also my biggest strength—to peel the layers off my suffering and look at it for what it is: a bump of the way to growth. To see people that I thought I’d get to keep as what they are: transient, lessons, and surely not mine. So, this baby I carry around, I keep it close to my heart. It spills out in conversation. It is eager to tell stories past. It sleeps next to me and shows its teeth in my dreams (though mostly my nightmares).

But it is mine. Even if I leave it at home when I go out for a glass of wine. I always come back. It always comes back. These memories, these stories, these secrets—they’re mine. Even if they won’t let me sleep some nights.

I’ll leave you with an excerpt from a poem from Yrsa Daley-Ward’s book THE HOW: Notes on the Great Work on Meeting Yourself. She’s a brilliant poet and writer and one of my favorites ever. Highly recommend reading her book(s), and highly recommend writing.

YOU WRITE  WHEN YOU NEED TO. YOU WRITE IT DOWN BECAUSE EVERYTHING HAS THE DAZZLING AND SURPRISING POTENTIAL TO TEACH, HEAL, BECOME WORK, BECOME ART. BECAUSE WHAT MEETS YOU ON THE PAGE WILL ALMOST CERTAINLY SURPRISE YOU. BECAUSE YOU WILL FIND YOUR WAYS. THERE ARE ALWAYS NEW WAYS. BECAUSE IN WRITING WE CAN IMAGINE, TRANSFORM, INVENT  INCREDIBLE AND NEVER-ENDING ALTERNATIVES, DREAM THINGS UP. BECAUSE HERE YOU ENSURE THAT NOTHING WILL EVER REALLY BE LOST. AND IF THE WORDS FALL, THEY WILL REACH OUT INTO BETTER PLACES, AND WHEN THE WORDS FALL, THEY WILL DIVIDE AND LAND AND SOMEONE WHO NEEDS THEM MORE THAN EVEN YOU.

Thank you for reading and I shall see you next week. 💛