Why I Write.
It’s the title of an essay written by George Orwell in 1946. It’s a title, too, I’d love to steal, because it so clearly states the question I’ve asked myself for so long. Why do I write? Joan Dideon wrote an essay titled the same in 1976. She said she stole it simply because she “liked how it sounded,” in particular the alliteration of the multiple I.
I wouldn’t have known to say it quite so poetically. But I will try to answer that question here. I do know I write because paper listens, and sometimes I just need to say some things that I would find hard to articulate otherwise. Paper doesn’t ask questions, either, or judge. And it never, ever offers advice. Paper, thus, gives me permission to say whatever is on my mind. If I want to scream, I can; if I want to weep, it lets me do that too. And, sometimes, what it lets me say is something I’d never, ever thought of before I wrote it.
Sometimes, I discover another version of a of truth I had not known before. Check out my story, “when all has gone. white.” There is no way I could have known the inner workings of this man, my husband, who went mad while he was dying. But, imagining his reasoning helped me understand better the many questions I had no answers for. So, I invite you to read on.