I write because it’s the closest thing there is to magic.
From words spring worlds.
Worlds of understanding, perception, knowledge – of humanity and of myself. I write to explore the world without and within, the real and the fantastic, the important and the insignificant, the extraordinary and most certainly the ordinary. Where there are ideas and images, there are words – lanterns for encircling thoughts, illuminating objects and scenes, mystically shining from one mind to another.
I write because the narrative voice in my head is continuously composing, often drowning out other important things.
The power of story compelled me to write when I was six years old, sitting at the living room coffee table with a pack of wide ruled paper and a fat pencil. A few years later, a teacher said, “What vivid descriptions! Keep writing.” Every year thereafter, a teacher strategically appeared to give a refining bit of feedback: “Wonderful writing. Here’s a way you can make it even better … and keep writing!”
I kept writing, even when my dad grumbled, “Why are you wasting so much notebook paper?”
Today, I write with children. I witness their discovery of their own voices, their courage in putting pieces of their souls on a page. I share in the excitement of their creations, in every little triumph over challenge. I work to empower teachers as writers, for the empowerment of student writers, that all might tap into the magic.
And I keep writing.
I write to wrap a cloak of immortality around everything I have loved – what was, what is, what will be.
I write to scatter the ashes of all my yesterdays, to walk in the light of all my tomorrows.
I write to celebrate having lived.
In honor of National Day on Writing, October 20.
Reflect: Why do you write? What have you wanted to write, but haven’t yet? Carve out a pocket of time today and begin. Tomorrow, repeat.
