Why do I write?  This was the first writing prompt in my very first writing class and is the perfect question for me right now.  I have been a lawyer and have run a nonprofit for the past, let’s just say many, years.  There is most definitely a lot of writing required for either job and I admit that the writing has always been my favorite part of those practices.  I am recently retired from both of those careers and now for the first time, am actually proclaiming myself to be, first and foremost, “a writer”.  This “proclamation” has proven to be a bit tricky for me.

I was taught to believe that your worth, and by extension your contribution to society, is a direct reflection of the money you make in your job, whatever that may be.  So, since I have never actually made money as a “writer”, I can’t help but feel inadequate as I stare daily at my shiny computer screen.  I sit down to write and immediately think, “who the Hell wants to read this?  Who cares what I think?”  The next question I ask myself is since I am not making any money, “why the Hell am I doing it?”.  So the question Why do I Write? is a really good one for me.  The answer is always different and always the same.  And, for better or worse, it has nothing to do with money . . . . . .

I write because it feels like a release to me.

I write because I find it easier than speaking.

I write to be thoughtful.

I write to express anger.

I write to work out my thoughts and to get clarity.

I write because it makes me happy.

I write because I am sad.

I write because it is freeing and I feel uninhibited when I do.

I write because I would like to make a difference.  To me and maybe someone else, somewhere else.

But this, THIS is the fundamental reason I write . . . . . .

I write to meet my ghosts and I have many of them.  They are all a part of me, who I have been, who I am and who I will become.  These ghosts are not always present, they come and go – ebb and flow like tides.  In fact, they are very much like the ocean.  One rides a wave in, impacts the sand, leaves a footprint or piece of itself and then rides the wave back out to join all the other ghosts.

I am afraid of my ghosts and yet I write to give them each a voice.  A strong, powerful voice.  Maybe to be heard just for a moment and then forgotten.  A mere acknowledgment of existence.  Or perhaps to leave an imprint or lead the way – to light my way.

Once a ghost has risen to the surface, ready to be seen and heard, she may stick around.  These are my favorite ghosts because as I meet them, I meet me.  These are the ghosts that really matter.

I know when these ghosts arrive because they are larger and although they may only whisper or stand in my shadow, they are a force, a protective beast and they are not leaving.

These ghosts teach me who I can be.  They are strong and weak, soft and tough, light and dark, loud and silent.  If I listen carefully I will hear what they say and carry it with me.  And then maybe I’ll write it down . . . . . . and that will be enough.