“ Molly, how would you describe the meaning and point of your writing these days?” That wasn’t the exact question my good friend asked me, but close. I wish I could say I had a really succinct, juicy answer then, but I didn’t. And I felt kind of bad about that. Like I should have had an elevator speech kind of answer. Clear. Crisp. Concise. Compelling. I’ve been writing for a long time now, resulting in a book or two, and lots and lots and lots of posts like this, so you’d think I’d have figured it out by now.
However.
I’ve thought about that question a lot, and it has evolved into an even simpler one: Why do I write?
Well, for starters, I’m pretty good at it, and have a nice little award to prove it. I love doing it, and it fills my cup in a way that nothing else does. It is how I make sense of life. Somehow putting words on the page is how I find and express meaning from lived experience. It’s out of my writing that I find myself more equipped to ask better questions, to listen more deeply to others, and to sit with the pain that life inevitably brings my way and the way of those I love.
Writing, then, it would seem is for me more than anyone else. So why do I love hearing back from readers about something I’ve written, and am disappointed when I don’t? Which leads to another question. Would I still write if no one read it? I’m not sure. Another question worth pondering, and I’ll get back to you on that. No pressure, of course, to get back to me…
But bottom line, I’m a better person when I do it. Period. If you don’t believe me, just ask my husband. And being a better person seems like a worthy reason to do almost anything.
(With gratitude to DB for asking yet another beautiful question. Keep em’ coming.
