Why I Write

The muses on my desk that help me to remember what is truly important.

Since January when I retired from Hospice Chaplaincy, I have used a considerable portion of my time sitting at my computer and writing.  One of the reasons I retired was to make time for writing.  Since January I have written two blogs a week and completed a manuscript on a small book that has been in process for several years.  I have spent approximately 15-20 hours a week writing.

As a Spiritual Director, one of the things that interests me is why we do the things we do.  Therefore it is natural, I suppose, to pause and ask, “Why do I write?” 

A very good friend of mine reminds me that I have taken on a non-paid, part-time job.  Another friend who has been retired for a couple years says simply, "Doesn’t sound like you retired to me!”   And they are right.  It is unpaid (except for the three copies of the book I will sell after it is published in the Fall) and it takes up as much time as a part-time job at Home Depot or Wal-Mart.  In response I offer this brief bit of my own thinking about why I write.

I am an extrovert.  I think outside of my head.  I learn by interacting and experiencing the world around me.  I write to engage in that dialogue and explore ideas and realities beyond my own thoughts.

As long as I was out and about in the world 8-12 hours a day, interacting with folks and sharing in their daily life, I did not need to write.  In fact, I found writing to be a pain in the posterior.  It was a real anticlimax to what I did almost every day.  During the day, the ideas flowed so fast I had trouble holding them long enough to allow them to take shape.  While I journaled, most of those entries were like a laundry list of stuff that showed up that day.  A great deal of fodder but not much real sustenance.  I enjoyed the excitement of so many things coming and going through my life that I did not want to slow down and really process them.  But I also knew that most of the ideas were better as fertilizer than food, not yet fit for human consumption. 

But now that I am retired and spend a greater part of my day with my own thoughts, I have more time to linger with these ideas and allow them to develop at their own pace.  They bounce around in the vacuum between my ears and link up with other ideas before breaking apart and re-linking with others.  Once they begin to slow down a bit, I may grab hold of one and spend a few days just pondering it.  I try and look at it from a number of angles and relate it to other ideas that have formed along the spine of my little mind.  These exercises in writing allow me to spend a significant part of my day not missing the interaction that used to fill my waking hours.  Writing has become a very natural way for me to stay engaged and continue to find meaning in my journey

However, I am not an author.  I do not make a living at this.  I am not a professional, committed to advancing the art of writing.  I just write stuff.  It is like my photography.  I am not a photographer, I take pictures.  I enjoy taking pictures.  I enjoy sharing my pictures. But I do not do it for a living and have no interest in doing so.  It is the same with my writing.

Many years ago I worked as a VISTA Volunteer at a Voluntary Action Center in a Lockhart, Texas.  During our training I heard a line that has become part of my life.  The trainer taught us that the word “amateur” comes from the Latin amare or to love.  An amateur does something for the love of doing it.  We are paid in the joy that the doing brings to our lives. 

Over the years I have observed that when we give up being an amateur and start doing things primarily for other reasons (a paycheck, ego, self-actualization, or any of a number of self-centered reasons) the joy begins to ebb and it becomes a job.  Writing is not always easy or fun.  But when I have written I look back and say, “That was good.”  (Note I refer to the act of doing it not the product.  Sometimes I delete what I have written to keep it from getting loose.)

And so, the short answer to why I write is that I love doing it!  It, along with photography, allows me to get outside of my head.  It keeps me listening and looking and pondering.  I have a decent memory that provides plenty of  cud for chewing.  I have lunch with friends and they trigger thoughts and ideas as well.  I have a loving spouse who helps me see things differently and points out things that I have overlooked in my hurry to the next idea.  (She does the same with my photography.  She notices stuff after I have passed by my rush down the trail.  They almost always become some of my favorite pictures.)  But mostly, I write because I enjoy words, sorting and sifting them into ideas and mental images.

So, where does this leave you, the reader, in the scheme of things? 

I really do appreciate anyone who takes the time to read anything I have written.  I do not expect to change your mind or convince you that I am right.  Rather, I hope to hold up an idea and allow you to see it in a different light or, if you agree, to confirm that you are not alone in seeing as I do. 

I enjoy hearing from you.  All of my blogs include an email that you can use to “straighten me out” or tell me that I helped you see things in a new way.  To be honest, I do not write to get your comments but I love to receive them. 

As a boomer I grew up believing that we were not supposed to just take up space.  Each of us were expected to make a difference in the world. Over the years I have lived out this boomer philosophy more or less.  But now that I am mostly retired and have the opportunity to do what my heart most desires, I write and take pictures.  I do so with joy in the love of doing it.  However, I always hope that sometime and somewhere a phrase or a sentence, a story or an idea, an image or impression will make a small difference in someone else’s journey.  I cherish that thought and pray that it is true.

In closing I am thankful that you and others have taken the time to read the stuff.  They are the scribblings of someone who lives in awe of something that continues to astound, confound, and resound in my body-mind-soul.  My writings are fuzzy reflections in an imperfect mirror of that which we all share, life itself.  I am indebted to you.   You have allowed me to share in a bit of your journey.

Blessings,

Bob