I write to share passion and kindness and tragedy. I write because it is my skill, my drive, the thing I am best at and most educated in and it makes me feel connected to something. My fingers on the keys directly express my feelings and thoughts to readers and to myself.
I came back to New England out of duty to my mother, who is recovering from illness, and secondarily to my young sisters and my father's new family. Before this, I was settled in a ranch-style house in Colorado, familiar with the bars and library and rec center and writers and dancers and my life was a list of things that I loved to do.
Everything was different when I moved here. No bars within walking distance. Blues dancing only two nights a week and fusion once a month, until I started my own dance night. I have a writer friend and a small writing workshop.
Plenty of libraries to choose from, but many are closed on Fridays. I have family close by--just a drive away. I am reminded by some of them of my uselessness in this life, throwing away my skills to waitress and pen words. Killing me with their good intentions.
I write to remind myself that I am not allowed to feel this way. I am not starving, yet. I now have a large three-bedroom apartment. I am close to my sisters. Index cards line the windowsills around my desk with reminders and rules: "Your writing is worth something. Keep doing it"; "Read lit mags you want to submit to"; and "write one blog post a month." Hopeful, demanding, and organized. As an adult, writing takes patience and deadlines.
Writing reminds me of why I make certain choices. It helps me see what lies behind peoples' motivations and desires, and to understand why they hurt me or their own. I want to write about everything, and see everything, and be everything. In writing I can do that. I can study, learn, rehash, and create. I often feel like a destroyer, a woman scorned, Kali of chaos, or Morrigan of war. It's always been that way: Rather than seek out connection, I listen for discord, trying to find opposition wherever I can, so I can tramp it down and bend it into something I better like. Contrary, my former step mother calls it. Defiant, I say.