Four weeks ago, when I wrote the Boundaries blog, I asked the question: why do I  write?  And I found myself thinking about the sixth grade.

I was a late bloomer.  I still wore a little-girl undershirt, while all my friends sported training bras.  Whenever we got a new J.C. Penney catalog, I’d circle a training bra so my mother would include it with her order. But it never made the cut because my mother didn’t think I needed one. Eventually as a compromise, she bought this stretchy half tee-shirt that was still more undershirt than bra.  Nonetheless, I wore it as often as possible.  But the other kids continued to tease me about being a part of the itty-bitty-titty committee.  And to make matters worse, two of my friends got their period.

So here I was still wearing an undershirt with no prospects for when my breast would come in or when I would get my period. I felt pretty insecure. Then I read Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret, by Judy Blume.  I was mesmerized by this fictional character who had the same problems that I did. I will never forget the chant, “We must, we must increase our bust.”    

Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret  helped me to understand that what I was feeling was normal.  When I finished the book, I wasn’t as worried about growing breast or starting my period.  Reading Margaret’s story helped me to realize that I would get through middle school. In fact, I found so much comfort in the book that I wanted to write like Judy Blume. Her story of a quintessential twelve year old girl opened my eyes to the power of writing about real life. I wrote my first short story that year.  I started to keep a journal and every situation I experienced became a possible story.

One of the stories I wanted to write was about this boy named Robbie in my seventh grade science class. He was short and always looked as if he needed a bath. He constantly got into fights. He had dark circles under his eyes and he smoked cigarettes like a man.  Needless to say, I wasn’t happy when he and I had to sit at the same lab table. But then we started to talk to each other. Robbie told me about his home life and how his father abused him. I often wondered if the darkness under his eyes were from lack of sleep or bruises. Our conversations helped me to understood him to point that I considered him a friend. I wanted people to see Robbie the way I did, so I decided to write a story about a boy who was being abused by his father. I had the perfect title, “Child of the Night.”  But I could never get the story off the ground.  It plagued me for years that I didn’t know how to write about such an important issue. I wanted so desperately to give Robbie a voice.

I didn’t realize at the time that the desire to give Robbie a voice was really a need for self-expression. It is the foundation of why I write.

I write to give a voice to part of all of us that is frightened and ashamed of the secrets in our lives. I write to give a voice to my inner child, who wants so desperately to understand her dysfunctional family. I write to shine a light on the things that happen in the shadows of family life. I write in order to create a space were it is okay to step outside of our protective shell and experience who we are truly meant to be. I write so that someone will discover that she isn’t alone in her experiences or emotions. I write to empower and to encourage.

As Sarah Bartlett, one of Minerva Rising’s contributors, commented on the previous blog, my writer’s statement has given me the why and how of my craft. I can confidently approach my writing with a sense of purpose and direction.

I’d love to hear other Writer’s Statements. If you have one, please share it in comments.