I love words, and I especially love quotes, because they articulate my thoughts and give me hope, connecting me to a common humanity. This quote by one of my heroes is a good example, explaining why I write even if no one else were to ever read it.
My first inspiration to write came when I found The Enchanted Loom by astronomer Robert Jastrow in my tiny, small town high school library. I devoured his explanation of how the brain works, a complex subject made simple in layman’s terms by Dr. Jastrow’s gift. I eagerly read the only other of his books in our little library, Red Giants and White Dwarves, on the origins of the solar system, in awe of his ability to effectively communicate complex concepts and planting a tiny seed that, though I didn’t act on it for thirty years, was vital to fertilizing the ground for when the time was right.
I’ve described writing both as my hobby and as my therapy, but I think the latter is more appropriate. Most of my posts center around a few common themes, themes of love and faith and struggle, the primary themes of being human. Having to put my thoughts and feelings to words means having to organize them and, most importantly, find meaning in the big questions of life. I think we all seek meaning; writing is simply my way of doing that.
A friend used to say “Words mean something.” He was right. They wield enormous power—to harm or heal, to incite or inspire. That’s why freedom of the press is the first right embedded in our Constitution and why dictatorships restrict it. But words also can lead to understanding and even acceptance of circumstances that are otherwise unbearable. This is why I’ll be writing until I lose the faculties to do so. I need it; it is life.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” —Ernest Hemingway