Why I Write
Why I Write
When I first began to take writing seriously, I was about three. I asked my dad how to write my “I am leaving home” note. Putting down his book (he was always reading) carefully, with a serious look, he helped me write a good-by note to leave on the kitchen table for my mother. I didn’t want her to worry. He also helped me pack a lunch and tie it in a handkerchief to carry it because “it was a hard world out there without food.” Peanut butter and blackberry jam are my favorite. I was on my way for my big adventure. I knew my mom would be sorry that she wanted to make me take a nap when she saw I was gone.
When I got to the corner, I faced my first problem with reality. I could not cross the street because there was no one to hold my hand. After pondering on the situation, I decided to turn to the right and keep going. At the next corner, I discovered I had the same problem. I sat down on the sidewalk and tried to think of a way to solve the issue. My neighbor Ms. Nell lived on that corner and was sitting on her porch watching me. She saw me deep in thought, but she also saw my father, who was following me. Walking to her gate, she asked me what I was doing. In my best grown-up voice, I explained I was running away. Opening the gate, she offered me a seat on the porch for a while and have lemonade. As we sat there, I saw she was eating lunch. She asked me if I would like to join her. As carefully as I could, I explained I had brought my own and opened my handkerchief. We sat there on the porch, smelling her roses, eating, and discussing how we could solve my situation. She couldn’t help me because if she left, her dog would get out of the yard.
Feeling refreshed, I left Ms. Nell and went to the corner again. She smiled when I left, but she was always smiling, that’s why I liked her. Deciding there was not a way to cross, I went down to the next corner—the same problem. Running away is complicated to a three-year-old. Ms. Else lived on that corner could not help me because she had cookies in the oven. They smelled wonderful, and I had no problem joining her. After eating a few of them, I was on my way again. When I reached the third corner, I looked down the block and saw my house. Running away was very tiring, so I decided to go home. As I got to the house, I opened the door and ran to my mother. I told her all my problems and after a lot of hugging and much sympathy. I decided that running away was not what it was cracked up to be. I never knew my father followed me until years later, when “My Great Runaway” was shared with my grandparents.
So why do I write? I have so many stories of both great and small adventures that I want them to be shared with my family and friends. Everyone has these similar stories to share. It takes guts to put them into words. Do I worry that people will laugh and surely hope they are laughing with me, but I can accept it if they are laughing at me? In retrospect, writing gives a chance to relive the story many times. I write for me and hope that others will enjoy it.