Why I write

Of writing, insecurities, and mothering. And all that lingers in between.

“Start writing…”

Substack

welcomes me ever so gently back to the blank page.

“Start writing…”

It’s not a stern imperative — “Write something”.
Nor is it the condescending and somewhat belittling “Just write” — Oh, come on now…how hard can it be?!
No, it’s an invitation — the gentle nudge of a light hand and an encouraging smile.

“Start writing…”
Let’s see what happens…

And so I do. I start writing.

I start writing, with no plan in mind.

I start writing, not knowing whether the words will end up sitting in my drafts for months before seeing the light of day — if ever.

I start writing, without even wondering where the page will take me.

I start writing, even if I believe I have nothing to say.

I start writing, despite the fear that what I write about doesn’t matter.

Will it ever? Did it ever?

Because I know. My fear knows. We both know.
All I seem to be writing about these days is fragments of the mundane.
Baby toes and clouds out the window.
Deep breaths and pink cheeks.
Short naps and misty thoughts.
Memories lost and suspended moments.

And the sly voice in my head sneers.
“Again?” — she says —“Who cares? Is this all you’ve got?”.

And the truth is…yes.
Yes, this is all I’ve got right now. This is all I know right now.
Or maybe this is not all I know.
This is what I have space for right now.
This is what I have words for right now.

And so I write about it.
There will be a time for other colors and new sounds. I know there will be.
A time for glistening projects and orderly visions.
But I write from life and this is life today.
And tomorrow.
And the day after that.
And I will welcome as many days of this I have left.
And I will write about them. Because they won’t last forever.
But if I write, some part of them will.

Time will keep flowing, in one direction only.
Smiling its sweet, cruel smile as I watch it turn every “now” into “just a moment ago”, within the space of a breath.
But when I write — oh, when I write I can see it happen!
When I write I can witness the present slide into past.
I can see reality morph into memory.
When I write, each moment exists and I can be/hold all of it.
It unfurls deliciously before my senses. And then it’s gone.
Never to return. Forever mine.

Yes, I write to remember.
But I also write to be present.
I write to feel clearer.
I write to feel deeper.
I write to feel alive.

Every story I tell, is a story I live.
Every feeling I voice, is a feeling I feel.
Every moment I describe, is a moment I experience.

When I write I exist. So that’s why I write.

Thank you for reading “— of rosemary and time” and for believing that my words are worth your time. I am forever grateful.