The Introvert's Reveal

Why I Write: Updated Version

I used say I wrote to follow whatever was poking its little head up at the moment, niggling its way into my consciousness; to discover what wanted to be found. That’s still often true. But I don’t really have any burning questions these days. It’s not that I know everything, it’s just that I know from experience exactly what wants to be discovered when I write—and it always inexorably comes down to…HERE.

Sometimes I write for the same reason I periodically position myself in front of a mirror at the gym: to remind myself I actually exist. Oh yes. This is the body. This is what “I” look like. This is “who” the I is.

In days of yore (yes I just said that) I think I feared that the best of me was hidden away where no one would ever see—and only peeked out when I was by myself.

But I could write about it, alone, and share that and be seen.

At least a little bit.

And alone is where the flow happens most often, where the muse alights for an extended visit—where I can hear my own music and just be in the quiet joy of being. And often in that being, be absent from my thoughts.

I still feel that those who never read my writing probably won’t ever really fully know me.

Which brings up another reason I write—so that my kids, if they so choose, will know their mother more fully and thus, themselves (which is also why I’m often brutally honest in my writing, to give them permission to be themselves).

No matter how honest we are in life with others, full expression is always mitigated, truncated, waylaid, not desired, too time-consuming—not possible. For me, writing comes closer. It also becomes optional for anyone to read or not read, and I don’t want to force my experience on anyone; not everyone needs to truly know me and I don’t need to fully express to everyone.

Because in the past I only felt truly like myself solo, I craved (crove?) tons of time alone (although I still do at times); to allow who I really was to come out and dance. Perhaps every introvert feels this way. I charge up alone and then take that fullness out into the outside world, where I join in, participate and extrovert until I lose the charge and crave being solo again to recharge.

Nowadays, I’m fairly sure that that alone part, though still a favorite way of being for this me, is not the only incarnation of me being the me-est, and sometimes not necessarily always the only truest, best me either—even in the human-form sense. Locking eyes with my daughter as we bust into waves of laughter is just as true as alone-true. Or when my dog Abby looks up at me from her food dish with clear gratitude in her eyes and I pat her on the head in my own appreciation. Or venturing down a dusty red path with a good friend. The truth is that I’m more likely to notice enjoyment of these happenings if I’m charged up from being alone—and there’s a kind of joy that happens there that is unique to other experiences.

I’m fairly certain that’s just how I’m wired.

But it no longer feels like I’m pretending when I’m not alone. And it no longer feels like I need to share myself only or at least primarily, in writing.

I don’t often nowadays have that feeling that I’m just running on fumes, clenching my teeth into a smile until I can get home, fling open the door to my house, collapse on the floor and breathe again, finally and gratefully alone. I notice time spent with my daughter and dear friends can be recharging too (although I seem to need at least a little store of alone time—even a short car ride—to access enjoyment fully—I otherwise become unbalanced and begin to shut down).

In any case I cherish this time with others, knowing it is fleeting.

The thing is…

Everything is fleeting.

And so I cherish more and more of everything.

Writing holds important things in place, if just for a moment. It creates a space to return to these things when they’ve…fleeted. It’s also communication, and communication that often releases energy and is thus healing, and which as a bonus, sometimes creates a connection.

I don’t often wear the mask anymore, and thus subsequently feel the need to unmask, which is a relief.

But still, as always, I love love love (at least some) alone time and perhaps the truest reason I sit down at my laptop whenever I get the chance is that I just love love love to write.