I write because it’s the only way how I know to make sense of the world. All of my thoughts at times feel like puzzle pieces, and sitting down to write makes me arrange them, order them, and then to see a bigger picture. I don’t know if anything made me a writer. I always wrote in a diary, wrote stories, and loved to read. I think even if I was a scientist, I would like writing reports. It’s the way I can express everything in my head.
I don’t know… I just did! As soon as I could write. I liked stories, deciding what would happen in them, creating the worlds in which they took place. Being in control. I think that’s still the case, though now there is also a love if language. But yes. Being the creator.
Laurie Clements Lambeth:
Why do I write? Sometimes I write to resolve or tease out an obsession–an image, a medical report, an action witnessed, something I said or heard (usually the wrong thing). But I also write to figure things out, to work things through. And let’s face it: that which is the source of obsession is often the question we are trying to answer when we write. But that may be more true for poets than fiction writers. At times, and at my favorite moments, it can amount to an accretion, a salad or collage of different angles on a subject, from The Wizard of Oz to a chicken we had who laid green eggs, to a neglected pomegranate tree, to my most current investigation, a painting by Degas. All the memories and images add up to some kind of hazy answer for the present moment. And the answers are almost always surprising, as though the writing knows more than my controlling brain does. Which doesn’t make sense, but does. In my poetry, too, I can say I write because I must reshape loss and separate it from myself.
When I was a kid it was the only thing I was naturally good at without trying.