I write because I must.

A month or two back, my friend awarded me with a Thinkers Blogger Award. The rules say that after receiving it, it must be passed on to five other blogs that “make me think.” I will do so.

But let me first explain why it is that I blog or write in the first place.

It’s simple. I write because I must.

This blog began during language school more than one year ago. My head was filled with Hindi while my heart filled then spilled over with thoughts of what life would look like in this new life in India. I needed an outlet. This blog gave me that space.

I’ve kept it ever since. Though not as frequent a blogger as I would like, my thoughts never stop. It's always been like this! I’ve kept myself up at night for hours on end with narratives and stories racing through my head. I’ll compose a story when I ought to be counting sheep. Often while I’m living out an experience I am also narrating as the story unfolds. I vividly recall the story of Shane’s birth being written during delivery. It took several weeks before those words escaped to written form, and while I waited for energy to return so I could compose, his story scrolled nonstop in my head. Sometimes my inspiration disappears just as I begin to write and moments later as I rush off to attend to Shane (or other) the pages begin to fill again. I’ve written pages and chapters and books and editorials. All stored away and very often ready to explode.

When the words do explode, I cannot type fast enough to keep pace with the words. My husband has seen me suddenly get up and dash to the computer or scramble to find a piece of paper mumbling, “I gotta write, I gotta write!” I must write. Get it all out. Writing helps me sort my worlds with my words. I’ve often said, “That when anything important happens in my life, it hasn’t really “happened” until it’s been written down.” I started a journal at age 12 and 19 years later I haven’t stopped. When I can’t get my hands on a journal, I find other “paper” such as the vomit bags on airplanes, or toilet paper, napkins, scraps of paper, or newspaper clippings. Now I blog. During a bumpy ride in a scrap-metal bus in southern India words began to spill. After rummaging through my bag I found a small slip of paper. A four-lined poem about the “girl-child” was scrawled out and later accepted and published on my college campus in the annual poetry book; my only published piece of work.

So receiving this award surprised me because I am more a muser, and I love playing with words and coining my own. I do accept it, though I know full well of the many others who do much more thinking about “thinky” topics than I.

Nonetheless, I do write.

And it is because I must.