“Why Do You Write?”
The sun has set. The moon is slowly sliding into the west and darkening reddish as it goes down. It’s now officially low enough for a cow to jump over. Mars is coming up in the east, bright, but still too low to get the telescope on with any real view. It’s 68 degrees on the porch with a north wind that I know will drive away the last remaining hummingbird I saw this morning. They’ve all left except him; maybe he booked a cheap flight and was waiting on stand-by. In any event, I know even this little straggler will be gone by tomorrow or the next day. Chester is playing chase and nip with the raccoon in the shadows of the yard.

I’ve set up the laptop on the porch with a view to the east, hoping the lights across the bay will bring some inspiration. The radio is playing some non-descript jazz: busy jazz—but I don’t mind. It’s a beautiful fall evening and the little one is tucked into bed leaving Daddy and Mommy with some time to indulge.

“Why do you write?”

One of my friends who’s read badosworld asked me that—actually, the question was two-fold: why do you write and why do you write about that stuff?

About two months ago I saw an article in the New York Times about Stephanie Klein. I knew blogs were out there but had never read one until I picked up the link to hers. It’s not my cup of tea, her blog, although I believe she has a talent for saying a lot without saying anything. Still, the idea intrigued me. I asked some of the computer geeks at the office about it and shazam, here I am.

I write what I see; I write what I think about what I saw. Sometimes, I write about what I think, but I’m careful there because like what Bob Dylan said, “If my thought dreams could be seen, they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.” I’m a tax and spend liberal who’s benefited nicely by the current administration’s policies but I still believe we’re heading in the wrong direction—driven by the twin evils of fear and greed. Taxes are the price we pay for civilization and those most able to pay them are getting a free pass while all around suffering increases. The framework for an aristocracy is being laid and no one seems too concerned. My wife comes out on the porch to remind me I digress.

“Why do you write?”

I’m speaking past all you readers--no offense--to a little girl who’s asleep right now and who has no idea what a blog is: a little girl who is uncommonly beautiful, smart, and sweet. I say this partly out of fatherly pride but still, we are approached every day with compliments about how precious, cute or, like today, darling she is. Her mother worries about this, but I tell her our daughter will have to deal with it, and it’s a damn sight better than being homely.

I write so that someday she will read this. Maybe I’ll be gone then, maybe not. I started my family much later than most of my contemporaries. If I'm not around when she reads this, I want my daughter to know how crazy I am about her, how she has focused my life like a laser, how much I’ve enjoyed seeing the world again through a child’s eyes, how happy she’s made me just by her laugh when I kiss under her neck like the hungry Poppa Bear lookin’ for his little Sugar Bear. That’s why I write. Don’t ever forget me sweetheart. Always remember, wherever you go in your life, that your Daddy loved you so much he thought his heart would burst.

On another level, I have to say—I enjoy it. I started this on a lark, not really knowing what I would write about. But I must confess, I enjoy it. Things bubble up from within all the time: the stories from long ago; the revelations of this life I lead now, so different than what I ever dreamed; the world as seen through a two year old’s eyes, with everything new and exciting—it re-invigorates me.

“Why do you write about that stuff though?”

My job is filled with sadness. People don’t some to me when things are going good. They come to me when they are in trouble, hurt, and in need. I don’t regret my career path, but I don’t want to dwell on it. It is, after all, what I do to pay the bills and do the things I really enjoy. Besides, I’m convinced everyday has that special moment, that little thing you see that lifts you out of the ordinary, everyday trudge to pick up the slack in the line. It’s that moment I choose to remember, to pass along to my little Sugary Bear.

Also, I would be lying if I didn’t say I enjoyed getting the feedback. I do. Anyone who says they’re not vain is, in my humble opinion, lying. And so I ask you—why do you write?

And while you’re thinking about your answer, I have to go peel my dog off a ‘coon…