Erin Lennon 

An Author's Note: It is an interesting question. Ask a writer why he or she writes, as an athlete why he plays football, ask a fan why she watches. Why do you watch TV? Ask that same person to really ask why, and to not give the answer "I enjoy it" or "It's fun." Did a father teach you how to play? Are you afraid of being alone?   

 

I've known the answer to the "Why I Write" prompt for quite some time, but no matter how much self investigation I've done, this "story" is one I've tried to write for nearly seven. In middle school, I wrote it in the form of a letter, in high school as my sob-story essay on college applications — heck, at least it got me in — and twice in college, once in English 125 and another in Writing 220.

 

I found, seven years later, that there simply and ironically weren't the words to express the agony that forced me to writing. I had the facts, the moments and memories, that had yet to be written down either, so I decided to write down the evidence as a means of investigation. I've found that these scenes are enough, that showing and not telling is the way I cope, the way I share with everyone else. It simply, and ironically, isn't enough to tell you why I write.   

 

To do it, I had to step back and look into the black hole that can be memory blocked, to but names and words to faces, and to look down from the heavens upon my life. How did bullying affect me? Zoom in further. What's left? 

 

It began with a sketch draft.