Why I Write

​I could say that I write because I have no other options, but that would be a lie. I could easily find myself in a nutritional research lab or studying maternal-fetal medicine. Or, law school…since that is what most English degree folks tend to step into because of the lack of jobs available to "English majors".  I survive to write. I write poetry because there is no other way to explain my perception of the world. I write short stories about psychological disorders because there is no other way to cope with my own disorders. I write journalism for newspapers because I refuse to sit down when everybody else has given in to social and cultural follies. In every instance of my crooked life, I have avoided claiming my writerly ways, until several years ago when I decided that not writing was a far worse fate than investing in a career that made money…and made me miserable.  I write because that is how I express and contribute to society. I don't write to awe people; rather, I write to connect with others. To demonstrate that we are living, breathing folks with something to share…and everybody's perception of the world is valuable to our progression as a people.  Recently, I came across the idea that my writing doesn't make me happy. Most people claim their careers, or hobbies make them happy, but writing doesn't make me happy. It sets me straight. My mind is full of neuroticisms, compulsions, addictions, repressed memories, and I write to bleed my body of the toxins created from negotiating those facets.  In my life, I have experienced suicides, infant deaths, sexual assaults, injustices, infertility, cancer, drug addictions, and the impact of single parenting concerning myself and those around me. Writing is my therapist. I can talk to it – see the flaws. I use my writing to heal and to address issues in my life and on a universal stage.