Tonight we head back to Michigan, but for today you can find me at the beach, soaking up my last few hours of warm sun.
For my application for the writing minor that I want to do at U of M, the main question is along the lines of “why do you write.” I’m actually struggling a lot more with it than I originally thought. Why do I write. It’s such a simple question but it has an infinite amount of complex answers. I write because it’s how I communicate. I write because it connects me with my mom. I write because it’s how I learn more about myself and my beliefs. I write to have a voice.
I wish that they instead had asked, “what makes you write.” What imaginary (or very much so living and breathing- hey mom) force drags me to my journal (almost) every night to record my thoughts and wonderings and plans for the days to come. I think that, for me, it’s the actual act of writing that I treasure the most. It’s the idea that I have the power to make my thoughts concrete and “real.” As I write in my journal, I imagine someone finding it 100 years from now and getting a very real view into the life that once was Larkin Meehan’s. I imagine them still struggling then with the same basic concepts that I struggle with now and that my words might help them, as they have helped me, find some peace in that.
What makes you write?