Why Do You Write?

I get this question a lot and I know you do as well. People want to know why I write and when I started. Why does a Computer Programmer spend as much of her time as she can, away from work, writing fiction and updating a themed blog about making progress?

There is this one thing in life that I experienced that I never thought I would be able to share with anyone much less the world. But it’s at the root of the answer to this question.

Many years ago, I was hospitalized for a week, diagnosed with Paranoid Psychosis. This was triggered by stress brought on by my repressive personality, which led to an extreme case of insomnia. Sounds like a lot, but it was a simple turn of events.

Let me tell you this; there are many things to observe in a mental ward of a hospital. One of which was the fact I didn't belong there. It's funny to me now because people say the craziest in the world think everyone else is crazy. Seriously, everyone belonged in there with the exception of me.

Forget that only three hours prior to being admitted I was having a delusional conversation with my pet rabbit about a conspiracy to end my life, the main conspirators being my husband and two children, ages nine and four. 


As the medication and sleep brought my thoughts back into balance, I realized (still) how many fruitcakes there were in that hospital. Knowing I was involuntarily admitted to spend my time in the company of these emotional lunatics was embarrassing. Though not a fruitcake then and still today, very mentally stable, I do have a minor case of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder).

It’s not an affliction that keeps me from functioning properly. Though, it keeps my mind constantly cluttered with images and thoughts that I don't want to think about but can't avoid, like what it would sound like cracking a skull with a brick or popping someone’s eyeball. Is it liquid inside? Would there be a noise? I’m too lazy to do the research, so I just think about it.

I think the reason I have thoughts about things like that is because I might want to write a story and those things might happen in my story. In fiction writing, we’re taught to use sensory description; show the reader the horror of your scene, don’t just tell them about it. You want them to experience it, so therefore, it must be convincing.

What does it feel like to choke someone? Do your eyes burn if blood splatters into them? By the way, the answer to that one is NO. I got that from my sister who was in a car accident. Blood dripped down her forehead and into her eyes. She did say I was accurate in that it makes everything look red. Sorry for the digression.

So when I write, it's almost like I can express these things that are in my mind and when it's out there I'm no longer responsible for thinking them because I've shared it now, through whatever outlet. I think that for me fiction writing or creative writing is like a validation of some sort. It’s a way for me to say that it's okay that I thought those things. It's like casting out demons at an exorcism.

After reading about individuality and voice in my last class, I thought about the things in myself that might contribute to my writings in a unique way (afflictions). I’ve sort of gotten used to sharing even the not so flowery parts of my life and who I am and those things I think about no matter how sordid. I feel like I can write about anything, with a great deal of honesty and without inhibition.

So tell me why you write and where it all started for you. Leave a brief comment if you like. But, if you decide to write a longer piece on your own blog/site, I’m providing this form so you can link your post here and we can make it a blog hop! Thanks for sharing.

Here's the code to insert participants on your blog (I couldn't figure out how to place it in here as text).



<script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.simply-linked.com/listwidget.aspx?l=3693fd42-74dc-4afa-864e-bce7c963ee30" ></script>

February Blog Chain - Second Chances

by Diane Carlisle

The February prompt for the AbsoluteWrite.com blog chain is about second chances. My story is a true one and I thank God every day that I’m here to tell it because in the beginning, before I was even born, I was given a second chance. I hope this doesn’t offend anyone, and the fact that I write this with a light heart is proof enough that I hold no ill feelings toward anyone, including my mom. I love you, mom!

What's a girl to do when told she was almost aborted? I think it was mom’s way of telling me that

My First Guest Blog Experience - The Epistolary Form

by Diane Carlisle

I have to say, I'd never been asked to guest post on another site in the entire three years I've authored my own blog. The one time I'm approached, I get a topic that completely throws me off. Not only am I presented with a writing topic I had to really think about, but one I'd never entertained in my own pursuits, the epistolary form.

I was happy to provide an opinion on where it works and where I find it less appealing for my own tastes. Read the post here.

I hope you visit Fish and Frivolity and leave your comments on what I wrote about this topic. Also, give Julz a big holler for being a great host!

Visit my Alphabet Links:

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I Met My 30 Year Old Self

by Diane Carlisle

I accepted a challenge at Florida Writer's Association Conference Blog, a blog I visit on a regular basis. I'm always shocked at how much the authors there inspire me to write things that bring out my personality, that thing they call "voice" in the writer world.

"What if the you of 30 years ago could suddenly spring forward in time and meet the current you? Or, what if the 30-years-younger version of a character could spring forward and meet the current version? Once the technology shock wore off, what would they talk about? How would they feel? Would the younger version be inspired by what he or she saw or depressed? Would the current version long for that youth, or be glad it was gone?"

Take the challenge and I think you will find your voice. Here's mine:


"This is trash, look at this."

The girl places the garment to her chest and spans the sleeve across the length of her arm.

"It's not you," her friend takes the fringed, waist-length blouse.

"I know!"

"Here, try this one on with the black chic jeans. It's cute." Her friend hands her a suede vest with laced sleeves.

"Excuse me," I say.

The girl looks at me and her friend fades into the background.

"Do I know you?" The girl looks at me and immediately gasps.

"I know, I know," I laugh at her because I know what she's thinking.

"Wow, how old are you?"

"I'm forty five," I say.

"Well, you don't have any gray hairs."

"That’s because I get it colored every six to eight weeks."

"Oh, well I guess you're allowed to do that since you're all grown up." She makes air quotes at that. "I’m not even allowed to get highlights."

"Well, when you can afford to cover up the roots every six weeks so you don't get that skunk streak down the middle, do it then."

"Whatever. It's like ten bucks."

"Try a hundred and seventy-five with tip and all."

Her jaw drops.

"You must be rich," she says.

"No, just vain." We laugh together.

Her hair is almost jet black and feathered back away from her face and plastered down with hairspray. I can't remember when I stopped using hairspray and just let my long strands drip dry out of pure laziness.

We stand for a moment and she notices my smile. "What happened to my teeth?"

I touch my mouth, "Oh, the canine?" I knew which tooth she meant. I always hated that tooth, but mom and dad insisted it was cute, way too cute to fix. I look at her smile and decide they were right.

"It's not as cute when you get older, so I had it fixed."

"Cool, I bet that was expensive, huh?"

"Thirty years ago, maybe."

"So what do you do as in a job and all?"

"I'm a Systems Analyst. I make software that runs on computers." I blush and realize the closest thing she has experienced with software so far is Pong, the game where two vertical bars are maneuvered up and down on opposite sides of the screen and a small digital ball is passed back and forth between them.

She's not impressed. Well, she has this blank look on her face, so I assume she's not impressed.

"So, you're a nerd?"

I blink back my surprise. "What? No, I'm not a nerd."

She laughs, "Yes you are!"

I look at her friend, now several feet away, browsing the racks. "Okay," I say. "Miss Honor Society. Miss J.E.T.S. Club. Miss Student Council."

She looks back at her friend. They are both similarly dressed in the latest fashion trends. A bit cartoonish for today's standards.

She studies me for a moment, then says, "Yea, well, I thought I would out-grow it."


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Story Settings From My Childhood

by Diane Carlisle


Here is a fun writing assignment. Think about some of the more interesting places you’ve experienced during your childhood. How would you describe those places today?

Here are three of mine:

Bamboo Hill was a small wooded lot about two blocks away from where we lived. We only climbed about one third of the hill, and nobody ever went past a certain, well-known log. It was 6 feet long and hollowed out from years of decay and rot.

Every tree throughout this lot was a bamboo tree, so we never really knew from where the log came, it was just there, and sort of as a reminder we didn't belong and probably shouldn't climb any further up the hill.