When I was twelve years old or so, I wanted to be a writer. I read constantly and loved that books could transport me to different times and places. I wanted to create that, too. I even started writing my first “novel”. It was a story about a young girl with many siblings. They lived in a large log cabin in the woods, ordered all their clothes and household goods from the Sears catalog, and were home schooled. I think I might still have those pages torn from a spiral notebook.
A few years later, in a high school English class, we had to write a poem about something in our life. I put my heart and soul into that poem. When the teacher had us each read our poems out loud to the class, I refused. It was just too personal.
I think that poem taught me that words had power. They had significance and could be lasting. You use words to tell a story, capture history, save a memory. We still read Chesterton, Augustine and Plato. What they had to say is timeless. It still makes sense today.
When I started this blog seven years ago, I wanted to let women dealing with infertility know that they could find truth, beauty and goodness in life whether they had children or not. That was then. But what about now?
I really had to stop and think why I still write here. In many ways, blogging seems to be a dying art. Why keep at it? And I think it came down to this – words are important. I still want to find truth, beauty and goodness in life. I want to capture little glimpses of that. I want to remind myself that no matter what is going on – goofy politics, natural disasters, horrible crimes, or just the everyday struggles – there is something more, something worth remembering.
And, that is why I write.