So, last time we talked about how I knew I wanted to be a writer; now onto to why I still want to be a writer.
I mean, I am a writer. I am a writer. Just not a published author yet, so there is a little wishy- washy-ness to the whole thing.
Moving on-amidst the job that just won’t quit, the husband that does not leave an argument alone, and the intense emotional toddler daughter, I not only write for sanity (boy do I ever) but I also write for me, for my daughter.
Sure, motherhood and wifehood and being a working woman are enough. It’s all too much, actually. But I decide to toss on writing for good measure; because it is a daily challenge; and because I am crazy enough to ponder word choice for 2 hours at a time.
Also because I want my daughter to know that she can be anything she wants; that she needs to dare to have her own dreams no matter what in life she has to deal with.
Also-because I don’t want her to become a sponge-so many women, feared of being too loud or harsh or don’t–know-what are afraid to dream, to open up their life for possibilities. And some are just so anal about being perfect that they forget to dream. To me these are the saddest things of all.
The last thing I want is my daughter to become a sponge; a soaked up, pliable piece of sponge that just absorbs what her friends and boys and society think that she should be; and so she just absorbs it all, becoming no more memorable than the generic yellow sponges on the kitchen counter.
At this last bit is some of the reason I write. But mostly, I write because I have to. I don't know how to say it any better, or any other way than that: I have to.