Carol has asked this question.
Others have asked.
I’m sure more will in the future.
But I thought I’d pose the question yet again.
Why do you write?
Not why you wrote yesterday, or maybe got a degree in writing, but right now why do you right?
I always posed the same answer to that in the past—I have something to say, a story to tell.
Today, that answer changed.
I jumped on a plane this morning—DC to Houston. A guy sat next to me watching reruns of The Simpsons on his IPad sipping a Jack Daniel’s.
I could smell it.
The plane dipped to descend. Houston spread below us like a patient on an operating table—streets crossed like stitches and highways like open veins pulsing with blood and life.
The plane was an hour late into Houston.
And my flight out of Houston was a four-hour delay.
When they called that Salt Lake was ready to board, I jumped out of my seat and threw my hands in the air. No one else shared quite my same sentiments. Squishing into my seat, I tried to make small talk with the middle-aged man next to me and he wasn’t interested. I turned to the window, to pen and paper, and my thoughts.
As the clouds morphed from plankton scattered in the sea to the belly of a wave just crashing, I thought about why I write. And today, this is why: It puts back the pieces of my life I can’t figure out any other way.
So why do you write today?
Maybe it’s the same as yesterday.
And maybe it’s not.