Yesterday we went up to the lake for the afternoon. The weather was just perfect. It was hotter than hell, and there wasn’t a breath of wind, but on the lake? That’s a good thing. The surface was like a sheet of the smoothest glass. No ripples, no disturbance. Just beautiful. And at the end of the day, the sunset was spectacular. On east side of boat the water shone iridescent with an almost neon blue and purple sheen to it. On the west side, the water shone gold, reflecting every aspect of the sun as it sank lower on the horizon. Spectacular tubing wipeouts aside, the day was simply…perfect.
It was one of those wonderful days with my family that reminds me of why I write. I need that reminder sometimes. Most of the time the answer to that question from writers goes something like it’s what we do, or we can’t imagine not writing or it’s what makes us whole or lots of other poetic reasoning that hints at the fact that writing comes from the soul and we can’t survive without it. Okay I buy it, but that’s not THE reason I write.
I write so that I can be at home with my children, so that my schedule can always be worked around theirs. I write so that we can have the freedom to take the boat to the lake and build memories that we’ll talk about twenty years from now. I write so that I can take my kids to new and exciting places, so that they learn about the world beyond our doorstep. I write so that if my kids want to run out for a snow cone I can simply close my laptop and come back to it later. I write so that I never miss a single baseball game, band concert, school play or awards program. I write so that some mornings the kids can crawl into bed with me for hugs and snuggles until 10.
Freedom. It’s why I write.