The house was quiet.  Vic was at work, the kids at school.  Resolved to put an order to my randomness, I pulled the chair up to the wide oak desk and started cleaning out the folder of papers collected at the American Christian Writers Conference, the first writer’s meeting I ever attended.

I filed away instructions on writing spiritual meditations, along with a full page of editors and addresses, any one of whom might buy two hundred words.  I copied editor Steve Laube’s web page address into my computer, and made a mental note to write thank you’s to the writers and editors who had looked over my work.

Reaching the bottom of the stack of papers, I discovered the outline of Cecil Murphey’s opening keynote speech.  My outline was empty of notes, never having been one who could listen, concentrate, and take notes at the same time. Cecil had begun his speech with one question typed at the top of his outline, “Why write?”

In 40 years I had never asked myself this question.  It never occurred to me.  Even now, the answer seems too obvious.

I write.  That’s what I do, like breathing, eating, blinking, and moving.

My feet walk, my mouth talks, my heart beats, my fingers write.

It is the only way to empty the thoughts out of my head so I can concentrate on cooking a new recipe for dinner.

It is my personal thumb tack to pin down ideas, hold them in place, to keep them from coming back time and again, when I really need my mind to work on more practical matters.

It is my way of arguing with myself, thinking, evaluating…coming back in a better frame of mind at a later date to straighten out my confusion.

It’s my way of giving relief to my husband Victor, not holding him accountable to listen to everything I want to say.

It keeps me from boring my friends.

It hints at a tiny way of connecting with people who don’t know I’m here, and don’t care if I am.

It holds my feet to the ground.

It lets me hear God speak.

I write…because I have to.

It’s the only way I know to live.