Why I Write

As a budding writer I worried my story has been told before, that somebody else could write it better, that maybe this is not my craft. Nothing can be further from the truth: nobody can tell your story, because it is your responsibility. Nobody else had the curiosity, the emotion, the background and the passion that stirred you to write it. If you don’t write it, nobody else will, and you have to bear the regret of never allowing it to see the light. I don’t write because I am a writer; I write because I have something to say.

I remember thinking how blessed my grandparents were to watch the advancement of society through almost a century, in good times and bad, from horse-drawn carriages and gas lights to mobile communication, unlocking the human genome and deep space exploration.

I can’t help but feel that the standard has now been passed on to me to be a witness to the world changing.

I reached the time of my life when one starts looking back on the events one had been privileged to experience, both personal and public. After I read other people’s stories, which made me laugh, cry, or reflect, I became aware that all lives are extraordinary and worth writing about, including my own. We all contribute our small share to the changes in the world, we matter, the people we love matter, as do complete strangers. We shape this world together, one moment at a time, and the future is always of our own choosing, always within our grasp.

This realization hit me when I lived long enough to notice life, instead of fighting it, and when my heart became so full of memories of places that are no more and love for people long gone that I wanted to leave an account of their existence on this earth, their oh, so very ordinary lives, the day-to-day details that usually get lost in the larger scale of historical reference.