I don’t spend a lot of time navel-gazing about why I write. Some things just are, like breezes and cooking smells, my caterwauling cat and the my wonky nail on my right middle finger. (Although, full disclosure, I spend more time than is necessary wondering why my cat is insane). But why I write? It’s just breathing, just wrestling through the tight spaces, craning my neck to the light.
I do sometimes wonder why I write in this blog, though, meandering, self-absorbed, a penny dropped into a deep well, sometimes without the sound of the splash. It’s an ill-advised endeavor, since I don’t really write for my target audience here, and I don’t reference my published work all that much so it’s not like it helps me “build a brand” or even sell books. Still, I’m drawn here again and again. I share things that are confessional, too personal, sometimes dark, often disjointed.
Today, finally, I read the best words to put some kind of meaning to it, as it exists in my head. It’s from a book recommended by a dear friend. The book is The Weight of Ink by Rachel Kadish (highly recommend it). And the quote goes like this:
… there was a secret she had tamped down until it was murderous weight inside her… and she needed there to be, somewhere in the world, at least one place where the truth existed.
rachel kadish, the weight of ink
So here it is, that’s why I’m here. I carry a hunger like a stray dog’s, not for morsels, but to exist, to be solid, to be known, to be heard out, to explain. I love creating a small little place where the truth as I see it exists, a need so primal so as to draw me here again and again.
As for why you’re here, I often can’t fathom. I can just humbly thank you for witnessing and making my truth just a little more solid.
