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:
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.