about

Why I Write

The dust swarmed her scuffed, size-5 saddle shoes, and the smell of sulphur filled her nose like the inside of a gas station bathroom. Only this was the countryside. Her Dad once told her to stay away from the thin, crusted layer of dirt formed by the hot springs because she could fall through the surface and into water that was thousands of degrees and die. She hated Nevada.

Life was hard, and the desolate desert surroundings turned even the brightest dreams into dim ideas. But still, the outdoors were better than the yelling at home, and after all, it was a Summer day; the best season for possibility. The soft breeze was fluttering the circle leaves of the poplar trees like sequins on a fancy dress. The shaded temperature was perfect.

She had her journal and a nubby pencil, and found a magical spot under a tree to sit. Yuck. She hadn’t considered the dirt. Or the bugs. She decided to drop down anyway because this is what writers did. They suffered, and they wrote. The new spine of the journal cracked as she opened it.

But, she had nothing to write.

Years rolled on, and waves of lessons rippled onto the shores of her life like wrinkles across the surface of a pond. Sometimes the ripples were more like 50-foot waves that swept through, discarding safety and innocence onto the shore like crushed, imperfect shells. That was life, though. She was meant to surf the waves. And if everyone has waves, what’s the point in talking about them?

So, still. She had nothing to write.

Until one day, she realized that the writing was about the surfing; about what it’s like to navigate the ripples and waves. Because life is hard. And Nevada wasn’t so bad because she realized that truly, happiness comes from inside. Whether the surroundings were desolate or lush, the water temperate, or scalding, or if the season desperate or full of possibility...hope was in appreciating the experience.

And the best way she could appreciate the experience was to write about it.

It’s just a story. Because to be honest, it’s hard to pinpoint a specific reason for why I write. It just fills in the cracks of my life like grout between tiles. It’s how I process experiences and choices, and I suppose that’s better than punching walls, or throwing plates.

Also, the page (digital, or otherwise) is the only place where my crass mouth and exploration of oddities can be tolerated.