When our new neighbor found out I was a writer (I love that word) she asked me what I write about. I couldn’t think of a single thing.
After a few moments I stammered out autism and mom stuff and some other things. I’m sure, compelled by my eloquent language, she was dying to read one of my articles right then and there.
Our conversation changed to marriage and kids and pregnancy stories and just as my mind was recalling what I write about I realized exactly why I write as well.
I write because…
Remember that moment when you were five or so and your mom or your grandmother or your teacher handed you a balloon and told you to hold on tight? You concentrated fiercely on your grip but then you went along your way and started to forget what you were holding. And just at that moment when the string started to slip through your fingers, you clenched your fist and held on tight and saved it. You looked up at your balloon and let out a giant breath because it didn’t drift away or pop or float up so high you couldn’t see it anymore.
That is why I write. That moment my hand starts to unclench is the reason I put my life into words.
I write because I can pull back a memory with vivid detail before it blurs into something else entirely.
I write because I can choose the color of my words and whether I let them float or hold them close.
I write because if I don’t, I might lose a moment as the world whips past or stumble over the pieces of a memory before I realize it has fallen apart.
I write because it is my instinct to hold on tight, one last time, before I have to let go.
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