by Debbie Kerr

Created on: September 04, 2008

Why do I write? What makes me reach for the right word or phrase or moment? The very same reasons that cause me not to write. . . the angst and drama of every day living, the thoughts and obsessions I can't outgrow, that which I pray about, my stomach clenched with knots, my chest aching with sorrow, even, sometimes, what fills me with joy. Sometimes a turn of phrase floats to the surface. Pen in hand, the words come, crowding one upon another in fluid abandon. Then, I step back to see what came out. Quite often I'm not really sure myself . . .it can be a marvelous surprise or it can make me gag.

But then again there are the stories that need to be teased to consciousness, ones which require effort, with brow furrowed and erasure handy. Those I pour over again and again until they meet satisfaction. In the past, anything that required such effort was quickly quashed, laziness definitely being one of my seven deadly sins. Slowly I am learning to appreciate editing. Oh yes, I can see your pen itching to correct, re-phrase, elaborate.

Then there are the sentences that write and re-write themselves, where the end is is a mystery in the beginning. Whole stories evolve from here, an idea whose time has come to fruition. Whether I write it is determined by life's tasks and if I am honoring my craft.

What makes me think I can say something others want to read when there are so many words already said? Even though these words may be just an echo of someone else's thoughts, they are unique to me. Or, they have been repressed for so long they hardly dare to expose themselves. But I tell myself if I have felt or thought a particular way, surely others had . . . there must be some meaning.

When my children were little, I would spin stories out, born of the circumstances of the moment, usually coming from nature and whimsy. One story, a favorite of my daughter's, centered on the simple task of hair maintenance. These many years later, the words have finally been committed to paper after churning for fifteen or so years. There is great satisfaction in that. I love the story even if she has outgrown it, or maybe because she has.

There are days I reach for pen and paper, poised inches from the page waiting . . .waiting . . . waiting until I mentally shrug my shoulder, giving up my futile attempt. Oft started, seldom completed.

As I sit here in the shade, this incredibly beautiful Labor Day, hiding from the merciless beating of the sun, the brash green of trees slicing into blue sky

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