“Brent’s grandma hung his photographs from her walls.
Wynn’s grandma owned a pair of those tiger ears and was a Chippewa because he was a Chippewa.
Andrew’s grandma watched him swing and miss during t-ball and was there to see him get his first hit.
Kellen’s grandma loved how much he reminded her of a young Joe.
Erika’s grandma was thankful for another girl and the cheesy grin cemented on her face.
My grandma whispered in my ear, ‘My Emmy, you’re the prettiest girl in the world.’
Today, heaven’s getting the prettiest girl there ever was.”
Writing, to me at this moment, is entirely emotional, exhausting and unending. In my family, I’m known as the writer; the one who will find the right words, evoke the right emotions, sing the right tune. I have a million answers to the prompt, “Why I Write,” but I don’t have the one answer as to how to express those answers. The swamp I am wading through consists of confusion in form, style and structure for my first essay as an official member of the Fall 2012 cohort for a Sweetland Minor in Writing.
Writing, to me at this moment, is freeing, uplifting and necessary. I know why I write, but I don’t know how to tell you. I don’t know how to go about successfully depicting my act of writing. Because it’s mine. All mine. It’s personal. It’s hard. It’s always emotional. It’s always undervalued to the naked eye. Writing, to me at this moment, needs a mode of expression. I need to find a way to tell you my story and let you inside my thoughts.
I wrote and spoke the excerpt above on behalf of Brent, Wynn, Andrew, Kellen, Erika & I two Thursdays ago. I like to think that those words helped heal our hearts. I write because words are the only things that seem enough. To us, those words told the story of a grandmother’s love.
But I don’t know how to show you that – to show you the emotion that I’m yearning for. I don’t know how to tell that I write because I have to.