by Maria Ragan

Created on: February 28, 2009

Why I Write?

Some of us need a deeper form of self expression. We wear our masks for self-preservation. In our diaries, journals, doodles on the phone book, or our scribbles on brown paper sacks, we make ourselves known. Writing makes us visible. We can acknowledge our happiness, grief, anger and frustration. It is a place to hide at times and lick our wounds. A delicious get-away, immense satisfaction for mere peanuts. I can write for free, a pen or pencil, and a blank sheet of paper or a bar napkin.

I can find safety from the world, from opinions that intimidate me, and I can let out the"roars of rebellion" that most certainly could get me arrested or analysed for therapy. I can scrunch up the paper and toss it in the trash can. I can store it in a book on my shelf, and when I discover it later, I can gauge my growth. Some of us need to have a sanctuary to let our hair down. Some of us have been taught to be careful, steady, and proper, but we are "running amok" and need a non-judgmental friend.

Wriing at college has been hard for me. I wrestle with formatting, and (thesis) thorn bushes. Introductory paragraphs, the body, and conclusions. Like sex with a bedside manuel. I guess it all has it's place. It has taken some joy from my conglomeration of generalizations and mood based exaggerations. I feel like I need an incentive to write an academic paper. Perhaps a degree? I am trudging through the last of winter, with scrunchy gray snow, and dismal skies. I am in a writer's gridlock, wondering if I will ever piece something together that lulls me to a peaceful sleep.

Honestly, when times are tough, writing is cheap therapy. A correspondence counselor residing in my soul. Sometimes I can find my own answers to my dilemmas in my own sentences, and at times, between the lines. I can romp and play and experience a new childhood. I can hammer out my heartache and squelch pent up negative energy before I spew out words that destroy important relationships.

I am blessed to receive lots of handwritten letters from my oldest sister. She has also discovered the serenity that writing can give. Writing is a tool to help heal hurts and heighten the present moment. What a gift. Writing unearths fragments of who I really am, it might not have started out that way, but in regular practice, it strips us down to our unvarnished selves. Somewhere hidden under layers of plastic coated pain, lies the vulnerabilities, the authentic person we are meant to be. I think God reads my letters.

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