writing?

     Why do I write?  It'd be much easier to answer that question as a five-paragraph persuasive essay, to be graded on spelling and organization and description by my English teacher or a standardized-testing official.  But, well, it wouldn't be the truth, the essence of why I'm here on a Saturday night, stretched out on my stomach with tea candles burning and a radio blaring, my sole companion my pen and paper.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that there are many different answers to that question, depending on who is asking.  Pick whatever reason you choose, whichever makes you happy.  That is the basis of why I'm still here: to make you, the general population, happy.

     "Why do you write, Meg?" in the words of a teacher would be answered thus: I write because I like sharing the irreplaceable gift of words with others, particularly with my apparent skill for it.  And besides, the earth without art is just eh, and literature is art, yes?

     "Meg, why do you write?" in the words of a friend would be answered thus: I write because I'm good at it and it helps me cope.  Cope with what, you say?  Oh, you know, the usual growing pains of growing up.  Nothing really in particular, it just makes me feel better.

     "Maggie…tell me…why do you write?" in the words of a shrink would be answered thus: I write because it helps me deal better than the pills you prescribe me.  When I get angry, I evaporate in silent steam and tears until the frustration turns inward, when I collapse in a dark place and look in the mirror at the sunken full-moon crazy eyes and scribbled features you call me, and the words come bubbling out but I can't say any of them to anyone, including you - look, you know I don't want to be here - so I write them to myself.

     "So Maggie, why do you write?" in the words of a parent would be answered thus: I write because…well…I don't really know…I enjoy it, I guess….

     "Magz why do you write?" in the words of you would be answered thus: I write because I lie.  I write because I lie and manipulate and think as many steps ahead as I can and almost never really talk to someone, I only ever speak and say the right thing and wait for the right time.  I write because there needs to be someone - something - I'm real with, somewhere I can just take the words out of my head and transfer them to my hand and then my paper in my spindly handwriting.  I write because words are no longer enough and probably never were and certainly never will be, and I need to express that as well as I can.  I write because a really bad eraser, no matter what you say, Emily, is better than no eraser, because at least then you can tell the words aren't supposed to be there.  I write because I can't cry when the fault lines are deep on my face and I'm beginning to fall apart at the seams and the only thing holding my rag doll body together is a thin strand of maybe's supported by thick ropes of lies.  I write because the best way to keep a secret is to shout it to a not listening and narcissistic world.  I write because I'm just a child by law and I'm trying to swallow the whole world with my a.m. meds but I can't seem to force it down my throat, even with the help of my liquid lies and truths and hopes and maturities.  


                 I write because I don't know the difference between who I'm supposed to be and who the fuck I am anymore.