My son steps into my office on his way to the fridge—his favourite electrical appliance—and looks at me slouched, as always, in front of my computer. It’s where he usually finds me before he leaves for work in the morning, or when he stumbles home late at night, unless, of course, I’m tangled tightly in the arms of a good book. I feel him hesitate beside me and I look up. He’s staring at the jumble of words on the screen lassoed between groups of periods and commas. His words aren’t posted for the whole world to see like mine are, but lurk in the dark corridors and crevasses within him, waiting for the right moment to break out and be heard.

I turn in my seat and brace myself for what’s troubling him. It’s not his fault his mother decided to become a writer—although I’m not sure it was a conscious decision on my part—maybe it was a done deal before I was even born. But I sure had a say at being his mother, and I’ve done my best to do good by that.

He shrugs and cocks his head towards the screen in front of me. “Why do you do it, Mom?” Why indeed. Why don’t I spend my retirement years watching my favourite shows, reading books, golfing, going on cruises to warmer countries, even knitting scarves for the homeless? He knows it’s not for the money; we all had a good laugh when I received my first $0.25 royalty check from Amazon.

He’s left me speechless. I wasn’t expecting to put a label to it. Maybe he’s questioning his own reason for things and wants me to show him how. Thing is, I don’t have an answer, and after a short pause, he turns to leave. “Sorry for bothering you, Mom.”

It’s only after I hear his bedroom door close that it comes to me. I do it to give back and share all the joy and soul-searching that reading has given me all my life. Some books have turned my head right around, others have made me cry, and some have showed me the way. I write, not for fame and glory, but to maybe give someone the necessary will to go on—be it a child being bullied or abused, or even a homeless person finding a life-changing book in a garbage bin—and to help them see how important their link is in that tight chain we call humankind.


About Murielle Cyr

Writer, organic gardener, soapmaker, listener.
This entry was posted in On writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to WHY DO I WRITE?

  1. Ben says:

    good post on a tough question. for me it’s along the line of the mountaineer’s credo–they climb because “it’s there”. the “it” for writers can be theme, character, mood, plot, humor… so many things, like so many mountains. which peak shall we climb today? More often than not, the peak chooses me and not the other way around.

    • muriellerites says:

      Yes, I feel the pull of the mountain too. It’s gathering the climbing equipment and starting out that I find the hardest. Good luck with your writing, and thank you for your wise words.

  2. karenprince says:

    I can tell that from reading your books, Murielle. They are very deep. I fluctuate wildly from shallow books that entertain, and ‘how to’ books that educate, but I share a similar theme of giving back. If I can bring a smile or save someone the time it takes to learn a thing the hard way, I am happy.

    • muriellerites says:

      Thank you for your kind comments, Karen. Shallow books ( as you call them) serve a purpose too. You don’t have to be a philosopher to dream. If a Harlequin Romance can help you ‘get away’, then why not. I love a book that shakes me up. Just finished THE BOOK THIEF, by Markus Zuzak, and my insides are all upside down. I’ll wait a few days till I calm down before reviewing it.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s