The Real Reason Writers Love to Write
By: Dawn Bevier
Tags: Life Lessons, Writers On Writing, Writers Life, Mental Health, Writing

The Real Reason Writers Love to Write

It Allows Us the Control Life Doesn’t

Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

I am 47 years old, a teacher, and a fledgling writer. Two months ago, my husband lost his six-digit job. My son is 17, a senior in high school, and my daughter is twelve going on 25 [if you know what I mean].

I am, to most people, a woman who touches things and they turn to gold. But that fact, like the story, is a myth. I am a perfectionistic, borderline OCD [ as determined by my therapist] female, officially diagnosed with panic disorder [which you can imagine goes nicely right now with the fact that my 50 thousand dollar job is supposed to currently support my family of four].

These two months have been undoubtedly one of the most emotionally trying times of my entire life. Actually, the last couple of years have been increasingly hard for a number of other reasons, even before the job loss.

These problems have brought on frequent insomnia so here I am, at 3:30 unable to sleep. However, tonight [or this morning] the sleeplessness has been a blessing, brought out a revelation.

Why?

Because in this moment, I figured out exactly what writing does for me. And it's more than those poetical notions of pent-up creative juices that must be freed from their enslavement to celebrate emancipation on the page.

It’s hope. Possibility. Escape. And, I must admit, control.

It’s being able to do things that life won’t always allow me to do. Maybe you too seek the craft for those same reasons. Let me explain.

There’s a back button. And the option of endless editing.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

Ten years ago, I could run a 7-minute mile. Pretty impressive for a 37-year-old female. But back then, I worked out four to five days a week, running 5 miles at a time.

In the following ten years, however, biology waged war on me. My lovers, Estrogen and Progesterone, turned their backs on me, seeking out younger women to make happy. Without them as allies, my body is a battleground. So is my brain and heart.

I eat the same, work out as hard as I can, but those former lovers gave me strength, prowess, a sense of emotional stability. Now that they are no longer taking an active role in my life, things have went downhill.

I still run, but I cannot go as fast or as long as I could. I still run, but the five-o -clock mornings that used to find me energetic and sprightly as I laced up my running shoes, now find me sluggish and unwilling. I must drag myself to the gym like I drag my grouchy 12-year-old out to catch the bus in the wee hours of the morning.

It’s demeaning. And defeating. And hard to accept. But age never goes back, it only moves forward, ruthlessly, irrefutably.

Our life’s mistakes are the same. Words spoken in anger. Actions taken in haste or pain. Where friendships were severed or opportunities were lost. Once things are done, they cannot be erased. Perhaps they can be mended, repaired, but things will never be as perfect as they were before those words were said or those deeds were done.

There is, quite simply, no “back” button to make life the way it used to be.

But there is for writing.

Whenever we don’t like what we have typed onto the page, we can go back. Delete. Start afresh. Create something better. Reverse time. We do not have to be chained to irreversible words or thoughts or actions. Each moment we have the option to rewind, to perfect. Even, if some cases, after we have hit the “publish” button.

If only life was the same.

There is always our favorite key “escape” and a variety of fonts to make life look pretty.

Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

As I stated previously, right now is pretty much an emotional hell for me.

My husband has been putting out applications like a dying man looking for a new kidney, but no bites so far. We have a small reserve right now, but every day that amount dwindles, and every day my corresponding fears increase.

If you know anything about anxiety and depression, you know that it is a cruel master, not only wounding you at the infection site but oozing outward, pus seeping into each area of your life, making everything more difficult.

Take, for instance, my new school year. It started last week. After twenty-three years of teaching, you would think that it would be easy. And it usually is. But anxiety clouds everything-your cognition, your memory, your ability to rationalize and self-soothe. And so, with these heavy burdens on my family’s shoulders, even routine tasks become monumental. And hard. But they must be done.

Because right now, I am my family’s only breadwinner.

This is part of the reason I embrace writing so much. In the two months since his job was lost, I have put out over 100 articles. Yes, for the love of writing. But also for the pennies and extra dollars that can make my family’s life just a bit easier right now. And even this creative outlet has turned a bit poisonous, for it has become less about fun and more about survival.

But such is life. There are trials and tribulations, journeys of dark forests and scary roads we must each walk through to get to the other side. There is no escape from this cruel truth of life.

But thankfully, for writers, we always have that beautiful escape key. We can “exit full screen” and hide from the reality of the page for a while. We can “minimize” and forget about our current writing dilemma or the words that just won’t come. We can shrink the text, make things pretty with a pleasing font, or add beautiful images to pull our focus from the painful words written or the harsh realities we know we must lay down on the page.

Unfortunately, life has no such reprieves. The text and screen surround us, blindingly visual and thunderously loud. No escape key in sight.

Bottom Line:

Photo by hannah grace on Unsplash

Writers are like fine wines. The more they age, the better they get. This is not always true with life or people. But, no matter. The page is still there for us. Plain. Beautiful. Willing to accept our pain as we vomit the ugly truth on the screen, and then, with the swipe of a mouse or the touch of a key, hide it, erase it, or save it for a day when we can bear to look at it again, to face the truth about times we can never return to or mistakes we can never erase.

If only life was the same.

If only.