Why I Write

I have a special picture attached to my bulletin board.

Okay, I don’t actually have it pinned to my bulletin board. I just have it favorited in my photo album app, but the sentiment of a printed picture resonates.

I hate to say I’m writing for me. Honestly, I don’t want to sound selfish or cliche. Many writers say they’re writing for themselves and it sounds, frankly, cringey and self-centered. I don’t mean to demean any writers who “write for themselves,” especially considering what I wrote in this page.

Thinking back, I realize that, most of the time, writing for “yourself” isn’t always a bad thing.

Now, I write for two main reasons: Christ and me.

I’ve endlessly mused about how I write for Christ and to glorify Him. I do, and I will never back down from that. I believe writing is a calling for me and the calling I can best worship Him with. That’s all I desire in this life—to please my God in the best way possible.

Every piece I write is dedicated to my Lord. All glory be to God!

But there’s a little more than that.

The Picture

Like I said, that picture is of me. It reminds me why I write—why I’m a storyteller.

It’s a picture of four-year-old me happily barreling down a Disneyland bridge, ponytails swinging and an over-sized shirt tied behind me. I love this memory.

I thought deeply about the possible symbolism in this picture. As I analyzed this simple picture, I felt like an English teacher insisting Longfellow meant purity when he said Evangeline wore white pajamas. There’s nothing to it—this picture is a fun memory and nothing more than that.

But what I love most about this picture is how accurately it represents me.

I have always been a passionate person. As a kid, I had anger issues. Passion ran deep through my veins. I had no idea I was such a determined, vehement person. It took me a while to find the right things to direct that passion at, considering I wasn’t a big reader or writer as a kid.

So writing became a central part of me just a few years ago. I can’t say I wrote little books as a kid, like many authors say, but I was passionate. It just took me a minute to find the right passion.

That’s one reason why I write: because it’s an insatiable passion for me to tell stories. I feel it as I look at this picture of little me, careless and joyful, fueling an endless imagination in the Happiest Place on Earth.

There’s more to this picture, too. Not only do I see a passionate me, but I see a lonely, awkward, and yearning me. Now, I wasn’t struggling with anything in this picture. I wasn’t lonely, depressed, and whatnot—I was four. The biggest worry I had was if Mom made something I didn’t like for dinner.

Years down the line, I’d struggle with things. Sin, loneliness, confusion. I wanted to “be myself,” but “being myself” was a little vague to me. I was loud, obnoxious, and scared. I was confident in being myself, but also scared to be myself. I felt like, whichever I did, I was annoying, wrong, stupid, and every other negative thing you could think of. I was a young teenager.

I wanted to let my passion for things flow, but would be belittled for it. “Nerd” became my heartbreak. But I couldn’t just suppress that passion and love for life—I didn’t want to be fake and I didn’t want to be like everyone else. My big heart cared about everything.

You could say I was a young, awkward teenager who just wanted to be “understood,” if I may use Disney Channel lingo. I wanted to be that me running down that bridge, unaware that anyone was watching.

Now that I’m older—not grown up in the slightest, but a little older—I look back and I see a gangly, frankly annoying teenager who just wanted to be loved. Not that I wasn’t loved, but listened to. I had a lot to say, and I still do.

That’s another reason why I write—I want to share my heart, passion, and musings through this wonderful thing called writing. Because writing is the only way I can express that insatiable desire for everything beautiful.

I must admit, I care a lot. I know it’s cool to not care about things. I know it’s a trend to nonchalantly roll your eyes and be negative. But I care. If I find something I love, I’ll pursue it with all I’ve got.

So when someone asks me why I write, I show them this picture.