Voici un témoignage synthétique qui m’a beaucoup parlé. Même si cette « tendance » ne persiste pas forcément toute une vie avec la même intensité, je crois qu’on en passe par là parfois. En tout cas, c’est ainsi que j’ai commencé.
I write because I have no choice but to write. Writing is physically part of me; it is part of me in ways that allow me to be me. When I think about not writing, I think about dying. The writing speaks to me in a secret language that only I know. I translate that language. Writing tells me to write and to talk to the world about who I am and what I believe in, what I struggle to know, and what I hope my memory will reveal to you (my dear reader).
Like Pablo Neruda, writing came to me. I don’t know how or why or when. But it came to me dressed in the only pretty face it had: in long swooping capital letters and synonyms and homonyms. It came to me in the moment that I wanted to seek out who I was, really.
I think about writing because I have to think about writing. I have no choice but to love in the moment all the words that try to speak to me. I write my conversation with the universe as it happens and as I remember it to be. When I am alone, I think writing is my partner. I think of writing as the best way to live; as the chance to be me in the way that I know how to be.
Why should writing be a question? Why should writing be a chore? I want to tell the stories of my life everyday. I want to speak to people as if they hear me beside them. I want to walk in front of the air and show my voice: sweet, scared, even shit-faced.
I did not find writing. Writing found me. When I think about its laugh or the way it holds me in the night when no-one is there to touch me, or the way it doesn’t shame me, how it accepts me when I’m fat or thin or happy or depressed, I know that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. And in those brief spaces where I wonder if I am doing the right thing, when my manuscript is rejected for the fifth time, I know that there will be many more disappointments and it’s OK. It is OK because this is where I am supposed to be: writing.
Why must you write?