I write for my stitched shut lips and my chain downed vocal chords that are not able to speak. I write because my diction is better than my dialect. I write because my author ego is better at telling my story than I am physically able to.
I started writing when I was in the second grade, at the young age of eight. My first story was “How the Bat Got its Wings”. I ended up winning a prize for it in the school, and my teachers and peers praised me for it. But, I didn’t write that story because I wanted to write. I wrote that story because it was a class project. But, writing that story introduced me to my true love-writing. I used to be painfully shy, and it still kind of seeps through now, but I found writing to be something that gave me a voice, for I was often afraid to use my own. The pen and the paper talked for me, and they said things more beautifully than I ever could.
I didn’t start writing because it was some cool creative outlet I heard about, it was just a task I had to get through in class. But it ended up defining my identity. I have always been a writer, ever since the second grade. My writing has changed, my home has changed, my body has changed, my identity has changed but one thing has remained the same–I am a writer.
I write for the sake of documentation. I write for readers. I write as an expression. I write because I’m free to do so.
As an often historically underrepresented woman of color, writing allows me to shine and empower and liberate myself.
Writing also allows me to be true to myself in all mediums of my life–in conversation, at dinner, in fashion, in my career, in my friendships, etc. Publicly displaying my writing on a blog has allowed me to rip through the cocoon I slept in for so long. I am now not afraid to voice my opinion, to say risky things, to be unique, and to stand.
I write to humanize my experiences, all of them whether it’s something as simple as throwing away a favorite shirt, as ominous as passing by a graveyard, or as personal as losing my virginity. These experiences I have lived come to life by writing about them, and allow me to converse with them, analyze them, overcome them, and grow from them.
I write to save my breath. I am a wordy person when I begin to talk, and I often feel there are boundaries in verbal conversation. But, in writing I can talk for pages, and pages, and pages. You don’t have to read the pages, pages, and pages. But I will still write them and talk to the black ink and white paper.
I write because the creativity that flows from my brains sails down in my blood to my fingertips better than it does to my lips.
I write better than I speak. I express on paper, I relate on paper, I re-live on paper, I tell on paper.
I write because it’s in my blood.
I write because it’s as natural to me as breathing, or being.
Thanks for reading! What caused you all that write to start writing? Or if you do not write, what keeps you from writing? I would love to hear your stories in the comments below! And remember to subscribe via email to be entered to win cool prizes each month!