Why I Write-A True Confession (or a poor excuse)

Why do writers write? It’s an intriguing question with as many different responses as there are writers. Some writers seek a private revelation, a detailed examination of their experiences and internal responses. Such memoirs may be shared with the world or with a limited audience or not shared at all.

Other writers may have urgent information, feeling a compulsion to make that information known. This motivation frequently takes the form of an essay. Essays aim to deliver facts, frequently presenting those facts in a manner to reveal the author’s viewpoint or opinions. It may even call for action to support the author’s conclusion.

Another writer is compelled to document facts and truth.

Documentaries and nonfiction attempt to deliver reality for the readers’ benefit and enlightenment.

Then, there are the writers who just want to have fun. We write fiction and here is the reason I write.

I love stories. I’m interested in your story and my story. I’m interested in his story and her story. Everybody has a story, some unusual, some incredible and some just ordinary. Those stories all have value and deserve to be heard. 

I used to sit with my parents and grandparents as they told stories of their lives, logging virgin forests with a team of horses, loading train cars with ice-cold cans of milk, rowdy dances in the hay barns, and so much more. All of their stories were populated with wild characters representing family, friends and perhaps a few enemies. There were people like Funny Wilbur who could solve any problem, but only with the most complicated and convoluted resolutions, or Flirty Gert who carried the honor of offending every woman in town with inappropriate attentions to every man in town.

I blame my family for building my residence in Never-Never Land, where reality and imagination mate to produce their offspring, my stories.

As a student, my story about Ben Franklin’s exploitation of electrical charges simply to earn a welcome on the European party circuit, garnered my only “A” in my physics class. Thankfully, the instructor had a good sense of humor.

As a young mother I used to entertain and distract my child with stories, leading to the creation of another storyteller. At nine years old, his story “Ant World” was a plea for red and black ants to live together in peace.

But time has a way of pushing us around. When responsibilities grew and life happened, storytelling and writing became dormant, replaced with more important pursuits. 

It was many years before Never-Never Land called to me and it happened without warning.

My husband was driving us on a mundane weekend errand, Home Depot, no doubt.The ride was quiet and uneventful, until the driver behind passed, straining the motor of his red sports car. A middle-aged guy, his face was set in a frown and his mouth was grim as he pulled even with us. Pulling back into the lane, he caused my husband to jam the brakes, hard, as the driver cut us off abruptly.

“Asshole!” my husband shouted out his window.The passing car and its harried looking driver sped away, down the road.

“Must be he’s late getting home from work,” I said in a huff.

“Still an asshole,” my husband grumbled.

“Probably stopped at his girlfriend’s and she gave him a hard time. He’s trying to break up with her. Wants to save his marriage. Really loves his wife.”

“Oh, yeah?” My husband smiled, his outrage trapped in my story telling web.

“Yeah. Tonight’s his wife’s birthday and he promised he’d be home for dinner. But his girlfriend insisted he stop by or she’d tell his wife about the affair and now he’s too late to get his wife the jewelry he wanted. Stores closed. So he’s got to pick her up some wine and cheese or chocolate. And drag his butt home in time for dinner. If he gets his wife drunk he might even confess the affair. It would stop the blackmail. He’s not sure he has the guts to do it though.”

“Hmm. Good luck with that.” My husband laughed, amused by the story. “I’m thirsty,” he continued. “Want something to drink before I buy us dinner? I’ll stop at that convenience store up here. They have a little bit of everything.”

“Yes, please,” I answered. “It’ll be awhile before we get to dinner.”A few minutes later, my husband pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store.

“Hey, that’s the car that passed us back there.” I pointed to the red sports car across the parking lot.

“Yeah, it is,” my husband nodded in recognition. “The asshole with the girlfriend.”

I heard him chuckle as he recalled my impromptu story.

We exited the car and headed for the store’s door. As we approached the door, a man burst out, brushing between my husband and me. I recognized the harried-looking face of the driver in the red car and a quick glance discovered his purchases grasped to his chest. He had bought a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates.

I choked back the laughter in my throat and heard my husband snort, as he did the same. We lost our self-control as soon as the door closed behind us, the other driver outside, rushing to his red car. We spun to face each other.

“Did you see that?” we squealed in unison. Then we erupted in gales of laughter.

The store clerk smiled in expectation.

“It’s a long story,” my husband told the clerk, shaking his head in resignation. Still laughing, he went to find a Pepsi.

So that’s why I write once again. What else could I do? I have stories to tell.