Why Write?

Yesterday I was sitting in a room, waiting for the doctor to come in give me a “shot in the arm”, and I was a little nervous.  While needles don’t scare me like they used to, I still don’t ENJOY having my skin pierced with sharp metallic probes; I ENDURE them.  So, while in this state, I did what I always do when I’m nervous, I grabbed a pen and my notebook and started to write.  Now, when I’m in this type of state, there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to the words that are spilt upon the page.  In fact, I’m lucky if I can construct a complete sentence and spell one half of the words correctly.   My penmanship is rudimentary at best, and I usually can’t read what I’ve written by the time I’m done.

I wrote about the reason I was at the doctor’s office, and the decisions made to get to that point.  I wrote about my feelings towards myself, Daniel, and my kids.  I looked at pros and cons, something that I had done before making the decision, but it felt right to write them in my ramblings.  As I continued, there began a cadence and rhythm to my words.  Back and forth, to and fro, they began to weave into my mind the surety of my decision, and I was comforted.

I’m not sure why writing comforts me.  Just as I like to escape into a good book when I’m in a bad mood, writing transports me to a place where I can deal with what is on my plate.  For a moment or two, I am the one in control of what is placed on the page, where the outcome will be, etc.  I must have some serious control issues, huh?  Now if I could only channel these energies into writing something else….
*Thanks to Google for the image*