Why Write?

I understand now that writing, for me, is like taking photographs of elusive images. I want to capture the images for myself and for others to look at time and again. I want to hold on to the feelings, the moments, the thoughts that make up my life.

Jenny and Lynsey, the down comforter pulled around them, reading Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood together, the snow whirling beyond them, the woods beyond the snow. Twilight bouncing the snow closer and closer to us, while the fire gently crackles in the library. Chicken simmering in wine and herbs on the stove. Chuck reading the New York Times, “Lis, listen to this…”

This is our Sunday afternoon. A snap shot among so many.

When I was 11, I spent a sleepless winter night, tossing and turning. Thinking that all the moments of my life would blur together eventually and that I wouldn’t remember any one of them. So I decided to remember that one moment. I looked up through the skylight at the full moon. That was over 30 years ago and I still remember the exact look of the moon, the clouds racing through the halo, how cool the pillow felt against my face. That is the only moment I remember from my childhood. I remember other things – the smell of coffee wafting up to my room in the morning, my sister’s face when she was overcome with mischief, the wind pushing my hair back as I rode the bow, high over the water. But none of these things are clear and deliberate in my mind. They are vague and changing and will probably slip away eventually. But the moon will be with me forever. I know this with such certainty. And I wonder, is it possible to capture other moments? Not just memories but moments. Not melodies but individual notes. That is what I wish to do. And when I read these notes, I want to remember.