House of Hawthorne

Why Am I Writing Again?

Posted on: January 3, 2014


My boyfriend, wise and wonderful man that he is, and perhaps a little drunk at the time, told me two nights ago that all I had to do yesterday was write. He wanted to read something I would write. I felt instantly happy. I have felt for a while that if I were to start writing and to actually devote time to it, it would have to end in some purpose to be a justified part of my (and by extension, his) life. He is the most utilitarian person I’ve ever met. I’ve seen him take parts off of people’s cars, hand them to them, and say, “This doesn’t do anything.” If he thinks I should be writing, then there’s got to be some end to it that he can see. Isn’t it wonderful how a woman can make her boyfriend saying basically one word, “Write,” into something entirely bigger and probably entirely different from what he simply meant in the first place, by the way?

I sat down to write yesterday and it was exhausting for some reason. I wanted to be able to present a fully blown, completed essay to him, like a present, a thank you for the gesture of telling me to write. I started writing about the night we met, a night like many we’ve had together since, but this was the beginning. And it was crazy and fun just like most of the nights since. So I wrote it, and it was definitely a beginning to writing something, and I felt good about it, and he came home, and I didn’t talk about it. The house was a mess, and all I had was a very short amount of writing that didn’t justify the day. He had gone to work and made something real and useful, and I had written three paragraphs. I felt foolish and embarrassed. Whenever he asks, always keeping me honest, “What are you actually good at?” I always say writing, but what if that he doesn’t think so? Also, what’s the point of sitting here and writing the story of our life when we still need to live it?

This morning I woke up and read what I wrote yesterday, though, and I felt better. It was a good story, one that I wanted continue reading, even though I’ve lived every day of it. We have too many crazy, good or funny stories for me not to write them. And that’s going to be my gift to him in the end. And hopefully it’ll be good enough that it becomes a bestselling memoir and I can buy him a boat we can live on, which would be a way better gift for him than some paragraphs, and I know it’s probably impossible, but hey, a houseboat’s worth a try.


6 Responses to "Why Am I Writing Again?"

I understand this. And it’s a testament to how much he knows you and how much you love him, that he both connects to that desire in you to write AND inspires you to do it! I remember reading your papers in high school, and the first graph would always blow me away because it made me feel so immature in comparison! You’d be talking about all these grand ideas, right out out of the gate! You have been feasting on books all your life. Somewhere inside you is the Samuel L. Jackson of wordsmiths, dude. You can just decide, “Dammit, I want my light saber to be PURPLE,” because you’re you’re a bad mother like that. 🙂

Sit, be open, and the words will come to you. 🙂

Aw I love you Amee, this means a lot coming from you! I hope you will read my work whenever it gets to that point.

Hope = know of course. Haha.

Duh, I’m a fan! Of course I’m gonna read what you write. 🙂 I love you too girl. This also makes ME wanna write!

Great post!!!!!

Sent from my iPad


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