Today on Twitter, the hashtag #WhyIWrite has been floating around. So far, there are 66.9k tweets — too many to read, but many are missing. I’ve wanted to tweet why I write all day. There aren’t enough characters allowed in a tweet for me to express my thoughts and feelings.
When I was younger, I wanted a voice. As a young woman raised in the South, I wasn’t allowed to have one due to societal mores. The expectations were for me to sit quietly, answer with a polite yes or no ma’am/sir and look pretty. Writing kept my sanity in check.
I didn’t write for many years. Nosy family members read my personal journals and no matter where I hid them, they would snoop until they found them. Lack of privacy stopped me from practicing my craft.
Even now, fear digs at, and prevents me, from putting words on paper. It’s paralyzing. Yet the fear of not writing is even stronger. It is palpable.
My name is Lisa, and I am a writer.
I write because I’m a storyteller.
I write because I have to.
I write because I am afraid I’ll explode if I don’t.
I write because it is who I am.
I write because I don’t have a choice.
I write because I refuse to be quiet.
I write because I can.
I write because crafting a story fills my soul.
I write because I can tell one hell of a story.
I write to express myself.
I write to make a statement.
I write to discover myself.
I write because I don’t want to wake up one day and look back on a lifetime of regrets for not writing.
I would write even if I didn’t earn one dime.
I will never stop writing. I can’t stop writing.
Writing isn’t a choice. It is who I am.
I write for me.