A while back, as I was thinking through some ideas in my head, I wondered, “Why do I write?” What is it in my being that compels me to put pen to paper? Why do I feel more myself when I’m writing regularly?
I had a health scare not long after moving here. Most of my preventative care appointments had fallen by the wayside over the last few years. Finding providers who spoke English just felt too daunting. So, back in April, I visited an eye doctor for the first time since 2021. I went in expecting a normal appointment and a new prescription for my contacts. I left with referral paperwork and scary words echoing through my head.
Returning to Myself
It could have been nothing – a benign cyst that just sometimes appears. Or it could be something – uveal melanoma. It took about a month, multiple visits to specialists (including one of the top ocular oncologists in the Southwest), and many nights googling myself into a hole, before I was told it’s the former. A benign cyst that’s unlikely to morph into anything else.
I bring this up because prior to that first visit to an eye doctor, I wasn’t writing. Since the kids have been born, I write about our days in the notes app on my phone before bed. More record keeping than anything, and certainly nothing creative or introspective.
Of course, I missed writing. I missed that creative part of myself. But up until recently I haven’t had the time or the energy for much.
But, during the back and forth with doctors and referrals, with what-ifs echoing in my head, I finally opened a journal. A plain, lined, hardback green one that I got at a Flying Tiger in Italy. Nothing fancy.
And yet, as soon as I started writing and putting what was in my head onto the paper, I felt so much better. Quite literally the minute I finished I was lighter and less worried.
Since then, I’ve written something in a physical journal almost every day.
A Writer is Someone Who Writes
I’ve always been a writer, even though I’ve rarely felt like one.
My family will tell you, I’ve been writing stories since I was small. Perhaps one of my biggest regrets is that no one wrote down the Story of Peas and Corn. I can’t tell you much about it, but it was an epic tale I composed one morning while en route to my babysitter’s house. I couldn’t have been older than 3 or 4.
As an older child, I’d often have a notebook with me. I’d write down whatever came to mind. I remember observing a thunderstorm, wedged on the floor between my bed and the window, notebook open in front of me. I’m not sure where that notebook is now.
Somewhere in my parents attic is a white notebook with colorful polka dots. Inside, probably in purple pen, is notes and my commentary on September 11th. I was in 9th grade, and I remember thinking that someday someone would ask me about this. I was watching the news and writing down some of what they were saying, unsure what history might deem worth keeping.
I’ve been putting words on the internet off and on for over 20 years. It hasn’t all been good words, that’s for sure. Those early years – oof.
I’ve lugged a (very heavy) box of journals back and forth across the world. They are among my most prized possessions. I think the earliest dates back to 1999. I know my parents’ attic has one from third grade, circa 1995.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had the desire to put words to paper. I’ve wanted to make something that lasts. I’ve wanted to write something that people want to read.
Jackson Pollock + Proof of Life
Have you ever seen any art by Jackson Pollock? Stick with me, I promise this is relevant.
As an art history major in college, I saw plenty of his work projected on the white wall of our classroom. I learned about the theory behind it and how he painted it. But I didn’t quite “get it” until I stood in front of one.
I don’t remember exactly which museum I was at (one in DC, maybe?) when I stumbled upon Autumn Rhythm (number 30). I wasn’t looking for it; I didn’t even know they had a Pollock. Instead, I was just looking around and hoping to be inspired.
I remember stopping in front of the painting. It’s bigger than I imagined – almost 9 feet tall and 17 feet wide. Stand close enough, and it covers your entire field of vision. The colors aren’t anything wild – mostly neutrals of white, black, beige, and gray. It’s in his famous drip style. If you give it just a passing glance, it looks like something a kindergartener could do.
But standing close and giving the painting your time, you start to see more. A cigarette butt under a blob of paint, the outline of a shoe print, a piece of string. You see, to make these paintings, Pollock would stand on the canvas, lean over, and apply the paint. He moved around the canvas, seeing it from all sides. In the act of painting, all sorts of things, small records of his physical body and his life, dripped onto the canvas, too.
Pollock is quite literally in the painting.
The longer you look, the more you discover. Pollock painted in oils for his drip paintings. Oil paint is slow drying, meaning that even after the paint was applied, it could be changed. Pile enough paint thick enough, and it could take years to dry.
Writing Like Pollock Paints
To me, writing is a lot like how Jackson Pollock paints.
Writing is proof of life. Proof that I lived, existed, and mattered. A record of how I move through the world.
Writing connects people to each other. It gives us a chance to realize, “You do that? Me too,” with people we might never meet in real life. Writing connects us across space and time. It allows us to see that, for the most part, people are people no matter where they are. I write to remind myself, and any readers out there, that we are more alike than not. Often, we all want the same things out of life.
Mostly, though, I write for myself. Writing helps me to organize my thoughts. I often narrate to myself in my head. I write to remember. And, truth be told, I’ve never had the best memory. Writing helps me to jog my brain, to wake up times long past, so I can live a bit of them again.
Keeping a record of my life reminds me of all the beauty there is in the world. It keeps me awake to my life. It gets all the junk that comes with living out of my body and somewhere else, where I can look at it objectively. Or not.
Even though I don’t always feel like it, I am a writer. After all, a writer is simply someone who writes. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve loved to sit and be still and watch. And I’ve wanted to write it all down.
