Why I Write by Alicia Fish

It seems much of my life has been spent wondering what to do with myself. I excelled at school but I excelled generally. Nothing to truly make me stand out. There were my interests in reading and running and “spending time with friends” but who can make a career out of those? When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I sheepishly answered “hair dresser” but only because that was what everyone else said.

In college, after deciding to pursue a degree in math, I decided I would spend my free time writing novels, because what else is there to write? I wrote outlines, created characters that were reminiscent of friends and family members. But the whole thing lacked imagination. Those pages were quickly hidden and the notebook used instead to make to do lists and grocery lists. Still wanting to be immersed in words, I started a book club. Because if I couldn't write an amazing novel, by golly I would talk about them.

Time passed and eventually I found myself preparing to leave my life for a year and a half for my church. Bored of the typical missionary letters home, I told a friend of my desire to not bore my loved ones with emotionless travel logs. She suggested to take one or two events that happened that week and tell the story. Tell the details of the people, of the experience  Let others experience it through me. So I tried. It was not very eloquent and not every week did something flow from my memories through my finger tips. However, each week I was excited to tell the stories of the crazy and extreme and sometimes mundane life that I was mine. And I loved when people wrote me to tell me how great my emails were to read. These were people who did not necessarily want to live that same life or who did not share my beliefs but my stories still touched them. That was exhilarating.

Eventually I returned to my life, married fast and found myself clinging desperately to faded memories of math concepts and terms. What should have been easy was now absurdly hard and oh how lost I felt. Numbers no longer anchored me and guided me. Now they were the rocks falling from the cliff on which I was perched. I powered through (and eventually found some solid footing) yet found myself lost among other college graduates who didn't quite know what to do with the knowledge they had acquired.

I found myself drawn to blogs, particularly those who wrote. I loved how they shared details of their lives, both great and small. They found beauty in the everyday or they found hope in honestly sharing their experiences, good and bad.

One day, while reading Essays of E.B. White, I realized how drawn I was to his writing. He wrote of his everyday life. Things that others might overlook or not find interesting but here he was, writing about the his geese as though they were people. I loved it. I drank in his words and looked around at my life, seeing the trees and the birds with new eyes.

And that is when I knew that, not only did I want to write, I wanted to write like him. I wanted to write like those bloggers. I wanted to be an essayist. To soak up the world and all its details and put it to paper. To share my stories, my human experience. Because that is the experience I know best. And in writing about it, I understand it better.

Not only did I want to write this, but I wanted to write it well. With the power of words, I wanted to paint a picture that others could enjoy and feel. That even if they had never experienced what I experience, that they could still step into anothers life and story. 

So here I sit, a little more focused in my writing aspirations than I was a few years ago, in need of great practice and more learning. But at least I now know where I want to go.