The other day I experienced one of those wonderful moments when something I had been struggling to write suddenly gelled into relative perfection, and the resulting onrush of joy prompted me to exclaim loudly and impulsively, “I LOVE WRITING!” My husband, who had heard me but didn’t say anything much at the time, must have remembered and been thinking about it, as he asked me today, curious, what it was I loved so much about writing. Without a moment of hesitation, I was able to answer.
I love the ability to take a handful of words that might on their own be neutral or meaningless, and craft them together with other seemingly neutral or meaningless words into something beautiful, thought-provoking, meaningful.
I love the feeling of struggling, being frustrated, persevering, and then surrendering as something bigger than me takes over and puts the words together the way they should be.
I love it when even one other person is moved, amused, blessed, motivated, by something I’ve written.
I love (and fear, if truth be told) the awesome power and responsibility that comes parceled up with the gift of writing.
I love it all. And this is why I write.