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photo by Alejandro Escamilla from Unsplash

This is a blog written on a challenge: Why do you do what you do? from Elle Fredine. I am not going to number my reasons, but rather write them out in no particular order.

My truth is that I am kind of awkward at life. I’ve always felt that way, even as a child. The only time my awkwardness disappears is when I write. It is the most natural thing I do — not being a mother, a wife or a daughter, but being a writer. I feel unfurled, like a fan. It feels as if this is the thing I was born to do, my purpose.

It’s true that I am pretty good at some things, mostly because I practiced them. I can cook three or four dinner dishes fairly adequately, I am an OK knitter — a little cowardly because I refuse to use math and wind up knitting things I never have to measure, like scarves and blankets. I’m a good friend, loyal as a dog, and always willing to help. But when I write, I feel a power from my very core. Using words, I am capable of making people feel and think, and that is a rush.

Sometimes it feels as if I swallowed a light, and when I write, it pours out of me. It seems to come from me, but it also seems like a gift given to me from the universe — or rather, half a gift. And writing is my way of completing this gift and giving it back.

It may be a hackneyed cliché, but writing completes me, like rain, and I am the same inside and out. I become enough, not lacking or needing anything else.

But the main reason I write is because I love it. I love every kind of writing, the clacking of keys on a computer, the putting the pen to paper. I love pens, notebooks, tabs — the office supply store is my second favorite place on earth (the first, of course, is a book store). I have enough journals and pens to actually start my OWN store, and it is one of my favorite gifts to give and to receive.

When I was younger, I had a bad habit of putting my face very close to the paper. I loved the smell of the ink, loved watching the black or blue lines roll out. I even liked chewing on the pens — for some reason it tasted like butter to me. But I’m older now. I (almost) never chew on pens. But my writer’s callous on the middle finger is still pretty big, my finger is misshapen for the rest of my life. And I am proud of that.

Written by

Writer and storyteller, immigrant, wife, mom, knitter, collector of jokes, lover of cheap, sweet wine.

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