Memories are like old photographs. Good or bad, they fade with time.
I remember glimpses of my childhood. Small memories here or there. And, I remember writing. Poems. Stories. Diaries and journals.
That’s how I dealt with my emotions. That’s how I worked out my problems. That’s where I went to truly express myself. Writing assignments were always a breeze for me. (The card catalogue is the reason I fell in love with research.)
Each of my books has drawn inspiration from the world around me. Writing is therapy. I write letters I’ll never send to people who will never read them. I write. It’s who I am. It’s my coping mechanism. It’s how I build my ideas, organize my thoughts, and work out my problems.
I write for me. I’m a wife and mother. My world revolves around the health and happiness of those three people. But when I write, I can focus on letting go of my extra baggage, of their extra baggage that I am carrying for them. I let go and I can breathe again.
That is why I write. Why do you write? How do you work things out? Share in the comments section.