Why I Write

Throughout my teenage years I hankered to experience the magic of America. Twenty one and broke, I did the next best thing; I worked as a nanny in New York and Boston.   After two years, I returned to the centre of the universe, Cork, to register for college.  A year later, I followed my boyfriend to London, ‘for the summer.’  I stayed ten years.  Boyfriend listed me as his ‘spouse’ on his visa application to China.  I said yes.  China fell through but we married anyway.    In 1997, after the birth of our second son we moved to Singapore where I had son number three.  We moved to Hong Kong in 2002 and returned to Cork in 2006. 

Homesickness dogged my 22 years abroad.  From New York and Boston, I wrote 24 letters home a week.  In London, I typed the letters but made copies.  Singapore, I posted and faxed the letters home.  Every morning, in Hong Kong, thanks to the wonders of the internet, I emailed my family and friends who were now dotted around the world, even those who lived next door.   

During the SARS crisis in Hong Kong 2002, my husband gifted me a 12 week creative writing workshop with Jane Camens.  Jane introduced us to ‘Morning Pages’ from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.Julia Cameron - The Artist's Way   Jane explained that the practice of writing everyday not only clears the sludge from your brain, it is meditative as well.   The penny dropped.   All those letters I wrote were therapy.  I wasn’t writing them for the benefit of the reader: I was doing it for me. 

I write because it cures me of the blues.  I am an extrovert and optimist.   All who know me will describe a friendly, talkative, small woman who never shuts up.   Yet every morning, I wake and think, “Oh fuck, another day.”  I roll out of bed, shove on my imitation Ugg boots, slither down the stairs, fill the kettle, haul out my Foolscap notebook wedged between two cook books, sit at the kitchen table, sip my way through two pints of warm water and write my pages.  

Pure drudgery but always, without fail, by the time I get to the third page, something shifts in my mind.  The sludge starts to loosen in the pipes and clear thoughts start to flow.  The walls separating me from the rest of world melt away and I feel lighter.  My resilience and sense of well-being is restored.   Then the magic happens.  Somewhere in the middle of the toxic spew that’s now on the page, a gem appears.  It might only be a phrase or a sentence or an idea but it sparkles all the same.  I lift it out, polish it up, sharpen its edges and work on its shape until the piece emerges - small, precious and almost perfect. 

Like me.

 

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