Why I Write

I’ve been contemplating why I write.  My essays, my book, are about me, my history, and my understanding of what happened to me.  I keep digging and sorting; holding up events, peering from multiple angles; clucking my tongue and shaking my head; seeking the core of who I am and how I came to be who I am in this moment.

My writing isn’t important to anyone else.  Others may enjoy it.  It may cause them to reflect. It may put words to their feelings.  But understanding me gives me power.  I can’t be made fun of if I’ve already explored my disasters and made the fun myself. I can’t be made to feel less than if I’ve already claimed my less than parts. Facing the dissonance of my past and present, accepting that horrible things are horrible but do not define who I may be, enables me to engage with myself, and face the truth of me as a flawed but triumphant being.  The two things are not exclusive.  I write from this perspective.  In part, it’s why I am able to admit my failings, my bad behavior, and still remain the hero of my story.

Writing this way enables me to be closer to the version of myself I want to express.  Without this ongoing interrogation of who I’ve been, I can’t know who I am and who I might become.  Without ongoing introspection, I don’t have a whit’s chance of becoming my future.  I inspect my past for understanding, enabling me to shorten the distance to who I want to be. 

There’s no saving the world, no fame or success, just simple investigation. If I’m blessed with language lucidity, why wouldn’t I use it as a tool to assist in this endeavor? Sherlock Holmes is the investigator; Dr. Watson is the writer.  Holmes cannot reflect brilliance to us without Watson’s dogged review.  I am both of them, dancing in this big chance at an earthly life.

Joceile

6.27.22