A late bloomer, I recently stumbled into writing. My children went to school, and I had time to do something, to study something, to remake myself. Dave said, “Do something that lights a fire in you.” Around that time, I picked up Dress Yourself in Courdoroy and Denim. Years before, I’d heard David Sedaris’ name on NPR and wrote it down, but somehow never read anything by him until that moment. I laughed until my face hurt. I thought, I can do this. A day later, I printed out applications to MFA programs.
Now, I can’t stop. Mainly, I write because I have stories to tell, and it delights me to tell them. I write because I want to have an audience. I write to entertain, to make people laugh, to create worshippers (of me first, then God.) I write to detach from reality, to hold up a mirror to others and myself, to play with the ridiculousness and divinity of life. I write to show my privates to others so they will show me theirs. And finally, I write because I think God has buried treasures in the narrative of my life, hidden for me to find.
My writing, however, is threatened. Depression chills my bones and forces me under the covers. Guilt, a constant companion, accuses me of being selfish. Envy measures me against your writing and finds me wanting.
Against these odds, I will write because I’ve never felt this alive.