Remember when we were young and it seemed like every two seconds someone would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” My answer for years was, “I’m going to be a lawyer!” When asked why, my response was, “So I can make a lot of money.”
I couldn’t tell you when or how money had become so important to me. Maybe it was because I grew up in a family that never knew what excessive amounts of money looked like. Maybe it was because I grew up with role models like Barbie and Britney Spears and other leggy blondes surrounded by wealth. Looking back, I was way too young that be that concerned with the amount of zeros in my non-existent bank account.
I also couldn’t tell you when my answer to that fateful question shifted to, “I want to be a writer.” I can’t tell you when money became less of a concern than living a life I knew I would grow to hate. I can’t tell you when I decided to go against everything I taught myself to value to chase a dream that many said I’d never catch.
But I can tell you why.
I write because I have a story to tell. I write because I share similar stories with thousands of others who will never have the luxury of airing their grievances or having their opinions heard. I do it so that those thousands know they’re not alone, that they don’t have to play a backseat role in a fate that’s completely within their control.
I write to explain the things that never come out quite right when said aloud. I do it to explain the way my life is lived and why I choose to do what may never seem like the best option. I do it to shed light on the problems that so many of us choose to sweep under the rug and keep in the dark because it’s “easy” and “convenient”.
I write to understand things for myself. Because sometimes, if we let ourselves linger on a problem too long or an emotion too soon, we find ourselves paralyzed in this hole to the point where we don’t come out. When I spill broken fragments and disconnected words on paper it makes it all seem a little less heavy, a little less hectic.
I write to remind myself that we are still human. To remind myself that even though we live in a world where we would rather text our friends than talk to the people we sit next to, that deep down somewhere we all still have this need to connect and interact. I write to show that, look, I feel too. I feel with you and for you and I want what you want in the same ways you want.
And I write to let go. There are too many lessons and examples that we lose in the midst of all the new mistakes we find ourselves stuck in. We pile them high to the point where all we see is “FAILURE” flashing before our eyes. I write to release myself from the cage I’m all too capable of locking myself into. Instead, I choose to cage these lines on paper so that I can keep those flaming words close enough to light the way but far enough not to burn me any longer.
I’m not sure that I’ll always want to be a writer. With years to go, my dreams may shift and desires may change. I might find that I need a different release, or none at all. But in this moment, I am a writer, and I have my reasons.
