I wish I could give credit to the one who first penned the line, I write because I must, but after an extensive Google search, I am no closer to the answer. Suffice to say, it is a popular sentiment embraced by many. If I were to complete the line I write because …, I would have a far different answer.
I write because it helps me process life. I wake up every morning with literal blank pages before me bound in a leather cover. After grabbing my cup of coffee with pages in hand and a book I am currently reading, I retreat to my front porch, one of my favorite places, and sit in my rocking chair to think and write about life. I may read a little or just sit and sip from my cup. And then, I write and write and write. Some pages are filled with rants and others with gratitude. Some days I tackle the deep philosophical or cultural issues of the day and others, I jot down a to do list. I complain. I pontificate. I question. I dream. I dread. The pages have coffee stains, blurry letters from tears, rips from being dropped, doodles from daydreams, but every word is my way of processing the story I am living – the twists, the turns, the mystery, the characters, the changing setting.
For me, these pages aren’t monologues. They are a conversation between me and the One who sees and knows it all. I pour out my heart, sometimes with snot flying and tears dripping and sometimes with laughter flowing or sarcasm oozing. And when I write until I can’t write another word, I wait.
And almost always, God speaks to me. Some days he uses words that seem to bubble up inside of me, and then there are days when He uses birds, neighbors, books, a phone call, and Scripture to give me understanding and offer peace. I can’t explain it completely, but I have discovered, He is always speaking. And over time I’m listening more.
I write because I want to process my life. But maybe on a deeper level, I write because I like having chats with the One who knows my story and enjoys living it with me. That seems like a good enough reason to me.