Why I Write
I must have been five years old and my little sister Celia was three. I remember taking our baths, getting into our floppy pajamas, brushing our teeth and jumping into the same bed. Sometimes mom read to us, and sometimes it was dad—but we always had reading time before the lights went out. At first, our parents read to us. But as time went on, we would share the reading duties, passing the book around so everyone could offer their voice. I remember reading Charlotte’s Web and watching my sister cry when Charlotte died. And sometimes before bed we would read silly poetry from Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein. But no matter what the book, we always sat onthe bed together and read.
On one particular night, we decided to spend our quiet, beforebed reading in a somewhat different way. I remember my dad putting away the books and saying to Celia and me, “tell me a story.” We were not quite sure what he was asking, but found that it was more difficult than we expected to simply, “tell a story.” So, we decided to “make” a story, not all at once, but over many weeks. We decided that each night we would read back what we wrote, but that we were only allowed to add two sentences each night, one from me, and one from Celia. After a week, we actually had two paragraphs of a story—a ridiculous, funny, and absurd story. We found that each night, after we crawled into bed, we were anxious with anticipation to read what we had created from the beginning—and we laughed so hard that our bellies hurt.
But even though we were adding sentences every day that turned and twisted the story in different directions, we also began to pay attention to what we were adding. I did not realize it at the time, but we were actually learning how to write a meaningful story. Though technically we were not reading from an actual book, I would consider this my earliest memory with writing—and with telling a story.
These early childhood memories of silly stories, poetry, and originality are some of the reasons why I write. The fictitious people and places I would read about as a child are still the memories I hold in my mind today—ones that spark nostalgia and feelings of genuine happiness. I write to evoke those same emotions in others.
I write to express my feelings and show my personality. Reading Shel Silverstein’s poems as a child made me realize that it’s okay to be silly and it’s good to be different and spontaneous.
I read so I can feel. Being read Charlotte’s Web by my parents made me appreciate how a well written story can make you think, laugh, and cry. It made me realize that characters can have vulnerabilities and flaws, just like myself.
The stories my sister and I used to craft line-by-line, ultimately, taught me that the best writing is sincere, creative, playful and full of life.
I remember even today the story that my sister and I would add a sentence to every night, and I use that experience as a guide. I write because as life goes on, I will add to my story piecebypiece, until I eventually come to a point where I am satisfied with what I have accomplished. Life, like writing, is about adding to my personal story. And that’s what I’m convinced to do.
