Every so often, I think about when I started writing. And why I write. And I’m not talking about fiction; I’m talking about this type of writing. The autobiographical. The non-fiction. The sort of “essay” writing. Or the stream-of-consciousness therapy that gets applied to paper (or screen nowadays). I’ve always had what I called: A diary. Why boys had to call it something else is beyond me. But whatever you call it, the diary, or journal, is sold starting very young, almost like a rite of passage into puberty, that little book with a lock and key that anyone, who really wanted to, could break into at any moment, and yet, somehow, we viewed it as safe. And today I ponder why I kept one and why I continue to, though it’s morphed onto laptop. Do you keep one? Have you ever? Did you grow up writing in one? Have you ever asked yourself why?

I wonder if it comes from my childhood and my close relationship with my brother. When I was younger, my brother and I used to write letters to each other and hide them in our adjoining closet. It was such a fun thing to do. Sometimes, we’d write them with “little trinkets” or gifts to one another: a silly owl eraser, some stickers, or some kind of weird thing we found in a closet—a photograph, a fishing lure, some weird decoration or knick-knack. I remember sharing a Hummel with him, and he exclaimed: “Put that back. Mom will kill you!” Who knew those ugly little things were worth money? Nothing was about money back then, not to us. It makes me think when I teach first-year writing to my students. When I tell them to just WRITE, they say: “But I’m not a writer.” And I answer that of course they are writers. Anyone with a thought or an experience is a writer. Anyone living is a writer. Anyone who breathes air is a writer. They shake their heads.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe everyone isn’t a writer, just as not everyone is an artist or an athlete. Maybe I’m just a weirdo, an anomaly. Maybe there is a simple biology to it. Maybe what we find beautiful or what music we love or what art resonates with us, is a nature thing that just is and has nothing to do with anything we can learn. I’m still trying to figure that out. Why do I love the subtle sound of an acoustic guitar over any other instrument, and why does my brother love the dissonant sounds of heavy metal that actually make me want to punch someone in the face it irritates me so much?  And so, maybe, it follows, that not everyone is a writer…

Every week, I have a million things on my mind I want to discuss, and I never know which one I want to write about to share. So I start (writing) and see what happens.  Sometimes an idea comes to me while I’m driving, and I start talking into my phone; other times, I just wake and look outside my window and see what happens when I start to write. But I feel like, regardless of whether I scribe it or not, I’m always ‘writing’--The coffee check-out, the school where I teach, the gym, the grocery store, a walk outside, the night sky, prepping dinner.  Wherever I am, I’m mentally ‘writing.’ At times, it’s poetry. Other times, it’s a ramble that later gets turned into a blog for you all to suffer through. And sometimes, it just stays right here, my own journal, my own diary, my space to be free to share whatever I want without the pressure of eyes or critics or know-it-alls or haters or sycophants. It’s funny that way. For as much as I write, I’ll never, ever, be comfortable with it. And perhaps, that is more of who I am than anything. You’d know what I mean if I’d only share my diary. ;) ​