Why I Write

I have been writing for a long time. Mostly for myself but it’s writing all the same. When I wanted to express building emotions that I didn’t want to share, I would journal. If I was bored or just wanted to create another world, I could fit into I would dive into a short story or two. When I was crushing or wanted to express the hurdles of growing up, I would write poetry. This carried over to my adulthood.

The moment I got reading down pat I discovered a world beyond what my then young mind could conceive. I would sneak read books at school when I should be doing classwork. I would read by the streetlight outside my bedroom window when I should have been sleeping.

It got to the point to where my mom would have to remove my books from my room at bedtime and teachers would force me to give up any books that did not have to do with the subjects we were being taught at the time. My mom told me later that it was hard to ground me from things when the only thing I was really into was reading. The only way she could get me outside for fresh air was to allow me to take a paperback.

A lot of times when I was outside, I would sit on the back porch and read my little paperback. There weren’t really any kids my age. Just ones who were closer to my little brothers age who like to play outside with them or the mean boys who were neighbors and liked to bully me. What I would do was something that my mom didn't know about until I became grown. She would have had a duck if she had known. When I would get bored with the book or if I finished that book up, I would go to spots that I wanted to go to but was not allowed.

Right outside the back door of our side of the apartment complex, there was a fence that surrounded woods. There was a little opening in the fence. I'm sure it was made by some teenager who was sneaking out or an adult that was maybe taking a shortcut through there at night. I would slip through the opening and play in that little patch of woods. In my mind, I'd see kingdoms instead of overgrown vines or old Georgia pines. I was usually the queen of these kingdoms. Sometimes I was a Princess, and I would play for hours but I keep my ears open in case my mom on my godmother hollered for me to come in.

. This open a new world for me that was my private little playground. At night I would tell my mind stories about the adventures in faraway lands well I was in control. A place where I fit in. A place where I wasn’t an outcast so to speak. It wasn't until 4th grade then I realized maybe I should apply this talent to storytelling.

Instead of spending all my energy making up tales to get myself out of trouble with my mom (or let's be honest telling outright lies to stay out of trouble), I started putting my pretend adventures on paper telling short stories. I would sneak out notebook paper for me the mom’s collection (She wrote too). I would tell those stories and only the way a child at that age could.

When I was in 4th grade my teacher wanted me and the rest of the class to tell our life stories. There was a reward for the best four stories. Mrs. Bell would self-publish our stories into books that would sit on the back shelf for her future 4th graders to read.

My mom helped. She told me about my birth and about all those little things that happened to you as a child did a person tends to forget. Then she got me to tell my view on the things I could remember which was from maybe seven to the age of I think eleven. I wrote everything down in a rough draft. My mom went over it to show me my mistakes and then I sat at the kitchen table with great care to make a final draft.

When I turned in my life on paper to my teacher, at first when I told her my mom had helped, she thought my mom had written it for me. Then when she had talked to my mom about it, it was made clear that I had done all the work. My mom had just filled in the stories about myself being born living in Florida and things that happened before I was 7. Mrs. Bell (yes, I still remember her name all these years later) was very impressed with my skills. She got me to help her get a 4th-grade newsletter started for the last three months of school. This included interviewing the scary principal Mr. Walker.

Now I'm sure you're wondering by now with all this had to do with why I write but if I was a superhero this would be my background story or however, they say it in Marvel Universe these days. The point is Mrs. Bell realized that one of the best ways to keep me calm outside of reading books was to give me writing assignments.

Over my school career, I was entered in several writing contests and was interviewed one time by the local paper because they were trying to figure out how a child with ADHD could write short stories, but the truth of the matter is this is one of the best avenues for children with ADHD. It puts all that penned-up mental energy to good use but that's another story for that time.

The point is the older I got the more I turned to notebook paper and pen (yeah, I'm old school) and write for hours. It is my therapy. It’s a great way to express my emotions towards others as well as being one of my dreams. I wanted to be a writer and I do to this day.

Writing doesn't care who you are or what you look like. It doesn't care if you are disabled. It's happy to give you an outlet for as long as you need. It's the one consistent thing in my life. To this day no matter how much pain I'm in and no matter how down I feel I am, I know that a blank piece of paper or a computer screen is there when I need it.

This is why I write to this day. It has taken me a while to get to work on my dream of becoming a writer, but I have come to learn that the only time it'll be too late is the day I pass away. And this it's why I write.