Why do I write?

I often say that it all began when I started looking into my family history – some of the characters seemed so nearly ready to spring back into life, if only I could touch their stories.  So I wrote them down – not as factual, evidence-backed accounts, but as tales consisting of fiction about people who had once existed.  After all these guys couldn’t answer back. Here’s one of them.

But that’s not really the start of the affair.  As a child I could change reality when it didn’t suit me. My first ever ‘story’ was about a little girl who threw her baby brother into the fire.  Guess who had just become a big sister.  But even at the tender age of five, conscience crept in, and I made the baby come back to life.

Later it was fun to write little rhymes as well. I even had one in the school magazine. Fame, indeed.

Later still writing was an emotional outlet, a useful way of coming to terms with time on my own. I didn’t just write angsty teen poems, but some slightly off-beat, cynical looks at my life or the world in general.  I tried writing with a typewriter, and even in a foreign language, just to gain some distance from the words.   I would wake up in the night, convinced that I’d thought up the great twentieth century novel – only to forget it completely.

Now I don’t expect to be published, but I like to be read. I know that most of my blog entries are read by close friends and family members – and they rarely comment on the blog itself.

Apart from that, why do I write?  To make sense of my experiences, to record things I’ve done, to control the narrative of my life.

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