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Why I Write …

by | Jan 10, 2023 | Blog | 42 comments

So I won’t forget the look on my 85-year-old mother’s face when she came upstairs to make contact with me after our little tiff during the holidays. I write to slow that moment down so that I can remember the timid sound of her knock on my door, and the way she entered my room, eyes wide, almost unsure of what she would say.

I write to remember the way I rose to meet her so we could hold each other, even though I was still mad, because there wasn’t enough time for anything else.

I write so I won’t forget how in the last few years she cries in my arms when it’s time to say goodbye, even after a bumpy visit.

And because words are breadcrumbs that I can follow forward and backwards so that I can track myself, and because the writer, Joan Didion said, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

I make these notes so that I won’t forget the moment last week when I said to my friend, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to intrude on your personal life,” and he said, “you’re part of my personal life,” and how that melted the part of me that feels like an outsider, someone who is knocking on the door, but not invited to the party.

I write because David Verdesi says, ”Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

And because today, the workings of my heart – and especially its tinny and rickety bits feel like my main job. This has something to do with what my father said before he died, and which haunts me. “I never learned to love,” he told us at the end. And how silenced I felt by that because I had loved him so much, and was it possible that he hadn’t felt his love for me because he didn’t know where to find it in himself?

I write because to survive as a child was to tuck in all that hurt, to become a mask, so that people wouldn’t know that they had gotten to me, so they wouldn’t see how tender I actually was. I write because it’s my job to find my way back to that tenderness, which has been patiently waiting for me this whole time.

I write because a palm reader once told me that I’d never be a Danielle Steel, but that if I wanted to continue my navel gazing, I could.

And because I have, and because I don’t call it that.

And it’s true that 35 years later, I’m still wondering what sent my grandmother and her car into the swimming pool that day in L.A. In my made up stories I’m in the back seat as she drives down Sunset Blvd. on that rainy afternoon in February. In my story I pop up from the back seat to reason with her, to ask her to take a breath, to slow down and to consider what she’s about to do.

I write even though I can’t ask her what really happened; did her foot slip on the accelerator like the police report said, or did she mean to drive through the azaleas and into the pool?

I write because of the clues:

The one wet orthopedic shoe in the guest bathroom sink. Her white patent leather purse, also pulled from the deep, and now sitting in the sink, and the items inside of that purse; the clumpy cigarettes, the sticky roll of life savers, the lighter, the drenched Kotex pad.

I write because we spent every Sunday night at our grandparent’s house for dinner, and because I can still smell my grandmother’s cigarette smoke, and see the way it swirled around her as she lifted her scotch to her lips, and laughed.

And even though all the stories about her include scenes of her crying, I remember her laughing.

I write because the author, Sue Monk Kidd said, “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”

And because I want to remember my father’s tiny walk-in closet;  the naked light bulb illuminating his black ice skates, the wooden box of black and brown shoe polish that sat next to his Wingtips – an old box I’d give anything for now just because it was his. I write to remember the smell of that closet; sweat and wool, and suits we’d hide behind during games of sardines.

And because while the world would have me click to find out what Kim Kardashian wore to her sister’s birthday party, I’’m training myself, one moment at a time, to put my phone down, and to move toward that patch of sun on the couch for a nap.

I write because after a lifetime of feeling that I needed to be important or smart or tell a big story, it’s the smallest things that I want to write down and remember:

The night I loaded wood into the fire, one log and then the next, for hours, and how complete my own quiet company felt in silence.

The way my daughter’s face lights up when her boyfriend walks in the room, showing me what love looks like.

I write because sometimes at night I dream about the things I’m afraid to say, so when I wake up I write them down. And when I told my kids that I might toss the dozens and dozens of notebooks that I have in the attic because they’re not dated and will confuse anyone who might read them, my kids told me to save them because even if they don’t understand what I was trying to say, these words, those stories would be the path they would take to find me when I’m gone.

Listen to Laurie read the piece here –


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42 Comments

  1. Brenda

    I love the piece
    Why I Write

    Thank you Laurie

    • Elisse M Gabriel

      This is one of the most beautiful, poignant pieces you’ve written, a life story in a single essay. The details, the raw honesty…all remind me of why you’re so incredibly inspiring and why we loved sitting at your table each week to write and write and write.

      • Helene

        How refreshing to read this. How inspiring. How it weakens something in my being.
        Thank you!!

    • DIANE Cohn

      Love your story. We all have one to tell. I do & I will
      DIANE Cohn

    • Beccy Summers

      I absolutely love your poignant and heartfelt writing 🙂

  2. Jamie

    I’ve cried and cried. Your writing is exquisite. What an honor it is to read this. This sleeping writer has been touched.

  3. BJ

    I love the way you write, Laurie, in such a fresh melodious voice that vibrates from within…your stories resonate with others, always giving a conspirator sort of whisper to the soul that says, go ahead, write from the heart.

  4. Kb

    Oh you beautiful, brave writer. I love this. As I come back to my practice this feels like a torch in the early dark.😘

  5. Elena CR

    Laurie, what a beautiful, raw, poignant piece. I loved reading it and listening to you read it. It moved me to tears, as I recognize aspects of myself in your writing. Thank you for sharing those details of your life with the world!

  6. Beth

    Thank you boatloads for writing what you wrote and then daring to share it with all of us! I woke up feeling defeated and lost this morning and during and after reading your words, your feelings, I feel grounded again and home…yes, like I am home for once, and home with a close friend or wished-for family member I never before had…now I think I will go have a good cry…

  7. kathe jordan

    Laurie, this is your “power.” Beautiful. After the pain of rereading my 40-year-old journals, and giving birth and rebirth to the selves I was and the who I am, I “disposed” of those journals from my 20s. Dunking them in a fountain in a garden in Morocco, I watched the words bleed out all black and blue. I wrote the memoir and put it aside. I took poetry under my wing.

  8. Jean Stumpf

    I echo all the comments above. So grateful to have found your offerings.

  9. Nancy Friedland

    Beautifully said, the small leading to the large. Thank you.

  10. Lobo

    I write in order to remember. The smells, the lighting, observing the nuances within, the incongruences without. Thank you for the reminder, Laurie. This is how I like to awaken.

  11. Helen

    You make patchwork quilts with stories. Each piece full of vignettes from your life carefully chosen as a quilter may chose their fabric. So specific, so detailed are the placement of these stories that remarkably hold truth for each of us. Your most powerful writing ever.

  12. Anastasia Vassos

    Yesssssss

  13. Nina Willow

    Laurie this might be my favorite piece of yours ever. It is beautifully written as always but there is a soft vulnerable feeling through out with each nugget you share of your searching heart. Thank you so much for your words.

  14. Alma Lorraine Robinson

    Oh yes! I write because at last I was free! At 48 years old recovering in grief, at last, the stories never allowed to emerge came tumbling out. The family rule: never write anything you don’t want the whole world to know. So I didn’t!
    …. the gate opened! …and then… I was introduced to Laurie Wagner’s 27 days of free practice! Thank you ! … that was 3 years ago. … yes…. thank you!!

  15. kate

    We tell ourselves stories in order to live – I must think of this quote every single day since I first saw it used as the title of an exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Craft in Portland, Oregon. Sadly – I think this museum is now closed.

  16. Stephanie

    Wow. This piece is absolutely beautiful. It touches on all of the reasons that you write, and so much more…the way you are in the world. And your daughters are right -don’t toss those notebooks. I love you

    Steph

  17. Nan Seymour

    Soul-stirring. Thank you for telling these stories, and for the utter generosity of your details. May we all put down our phones and move towards that patch of sun.

  18. Monica

    You inspire me, Laurie! You bravely explore your pain, your grace and the grace of others. Thank you for being so generous with your vulnerability.

  19. Lisa Davis

    Oh, Laurie…the impact of your words, your stories and images…like a blood transfusion, a reminder of our humanity in all it’s perfect intimacies. I am getting a catheter inserted into my heart on Friday. It could not possibly get any closer than your words. Oh my…

    ps…just finished reading “Maus” by Art Spiegelman (intrigued after reading the NYTimes essay about him and his work)…brilliant and devastating. His relationship with his father was so complicated and so primal. His mother committed suicide when he was a young man. Very complicated. Our parental relationships are both rough, abrasive and tender like a bruise. If you haven’t read or seen it…

  20. Marianne Rosenthal

    An absolute gem of a piece, Laurie, linking the little stories inside us that contribute to who we are, why we write, and how we walk in the world with our hearts open and closed.

    Thank you for opening my heart and inspiring me to keep writing my stories, to keep showing up to the blank page and the writing process after all these years, to keep sharing space with wild women writers whose stories I value and weave with mine as I continue to find my way.

  21. bo

    As always, so much heart and truth on the page. Beautiful.

  22. Dulce

    Wow, this is such a tender and heartwarming piece, Laurie. So grateful that we get to tumble in the magic of your written words.

  23. Sharon E

    Please find that palm reader and tell her, we don’t need Danielle Steele, we need you, Laurie Wagner! This essay is a gift–thank you so much for your words, your stories, and your teaching. XO

  24. Lynn Young

    Exquisite! Proof that there’s nothing small about the smallest of things.
    Thank you for lighting the path with tenderness.

  25. Ana Luther

    You touched my heart. and that feels always nice. Thank you Laurie!

  26. Mary Hassell

    Beautiful, powerful, and touching.

    • Annamaria Sacco

      Beautiful. It reminds me of the tenderness and honesty with which I faced my feelings and used writing to support me while my parents where in their last few weak and fragile years. Tender.
      In the end, after the went, I took the time to put all of the poems together, life companions that served well, and could be witnesses of a time, all in one place…
      Looking forward to connecting soon

  27. Tanya Shaffer

    Love this, Laurie. So beautiful.

  28. Sheila

    gorgeous Laurie, your father’s closet sounds and smells a lot like my Dad’s!

  29. Heidi BK Sloss

    So many delicious morsels in this piece. Thank you. I especially loved: “I write because David Verdesi says, ”Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.””

  30. Diana Johnston

    Beautiful! I so love your thoughtfully specific details. Thank you for this compelling piece.

  31. Clay

    “the part of me that feels like an outsider, someone who is knocking on the door, but not invited to the party.”

    Or didn’t realize that I *was* invited but kept myself outside…

  32. Patricia Dias

    “I write because it’s my job to find my way back to that tenderness, which has been patiently waiting for me this whole time.” – THIS! This is it.

  33. Joel Drucker

    Lovely — thoughtful and so nicely powerful. Well done, Laurie.

  34. Mindy

    “…it’s the smallest things that I want to write down and remember”

    Yes, yes. To this and to putting our phones down and moving towards the patch of sun for a nap.

    Yes to all of this. I and so grateful for you and your tenderhearted sharing that opens things inside of me I’d forgotten were there.

    Thank you.

  35. Lynn Duvall

    Vulnerable, compassionate writing like this is why, 35 or so years ago, I signed up to take a class from you that I couldn’t afford. Then when I realized what a bargain that class was, I signed up for another and another. You really heard what all of us were saying, more than any of the other four or five teachers I took classes with when you left the school to work on your own writing. I’m still here, still learning. Because, after all that time, nobody plumbs the depths the way you do and brings back so much treasure when you surface.

  36. Marian Green

    This is beautiful Laurie. It has a musical, philosophical quality that I’d like to find in my own writing.
    I don’t know how I found you, but I’m glad I did.
    I’ve signed up for the 5 day Wild Writing sessions and have just finished the first day, having had to come to the recordings rather than be there in person.
    It was amazing and hopefully I’ll be able to get to day 2 tomorrow.
    Thank you so much for your generosity in giving us this for free – the only way I could do it just now.

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