Every writer, sooner or later, asks the question, "Why do I write?"
|If someone had told me twenty years ago, when I first read The Black Stallion, I would be forever hooked by written words, I would have never believed I would be here. Years ago, as a young child, my father abused and molested me. My mother abandoned me at 10. I was in pain and fear constantly. Books saved my life. They transported me into fairy tales, far away places, new unexplored worlds. They gave me horses so that I could ride away from my life, fast and free as the wind.
It would be almost twenty years before I realized the depth of my love for words. I learned it wasn't just reading them that I loved. I loved shaping and arranging them, lovingly placing them in a way that would transport my readers somewhere magical. Even then, I didn't imagine I might want to do for readers what authors had been doing for me. At fourteen I wrote my first short story for an English class. I discovered a new kind of magic - even more powerful than reading books. I fell hopelessly in love with writing.
As I grew, I used words to heal myself. I wrote about my pain, my fear, and my hatred of the world. I wrote about betrayal, sorrow, and joy. I wrote about my circumstances and how they affected me, how I would change them if I could. I wrote my hopes and dreams and my journey to fulfill them. I poured it all out and over the years, it kept me sane as I remained trapped in a repeated cycle of victimization and abuse. It kept me from losing the small, fragile part of me that remained hidden away, where no one could find it.
Once I became an adult, I realized a new freedom: the freedom to choose my own path. As soon as I could, I freed myself from my abusive prison. I fled my life and determined I would start anew, unaware that demons still followed me and threatened my new life at every turn. With each success, it seemed I found an even bigger failure. But I continued to read and write through the years.
My writing became a form of self-therapy. I used writing to heal myself, to soothe my soul. The magic of words rid me of my pain, battled my demons, and then created new magical worlds for others to play and be free in.
I write now so that never again will my voice be silenced. It will rise; pure, clear, and beautiful, to touch all who will listen. It will whisper secrets, share dreams, protect and love. It will live on through the ages, and find those small children and adults who are like I have been, and are holding onto a pain that they should release. It will find others and share beauty and joy and pain and fear. One day, my words may save someone else, as words have always saved me.