Writing: Another Manifesto

Where Stories Come From

By Laura Steadham Smith
QuailBellMagazine.com

I write because I might be the worst person I know. I write because azaleas bloom in spring. I write to remember what it felt like to run through the woods as a kid. I write to become someone else. I write because one of my favorite sounds is pride in my Dad’s voice. I write because other people are infinitely more interesting than I am. I write because I am too many different people to keep track of.

I write because I over-think everything. I write because I’m a narcissist. I write because I hate myself. I write because I’m not good at talking. I write because counseling costs money and booze is bad for my liver. I write because I think that, maybe someday, I’ll figure things out. I write because I’m lonely. I write because Laura Ingalls Wilder. I write because I don’t want to admit I wish I had gone to med school. I write because I have to. I write because I’m too type A to function and need a place for my thoughts to go after I’ve organized all the dishes in matching pairs and made to-do lists of all the clutter inside my head. I write because sometimes music takes too much energy.

I write because sometimes I want to. I write to say something beautiful. I write because I want other people to understand each other. I write because I don’t understand anyone. I write because knowing thyself seems like a good idea. I write because I think empathy is the most important virtue in the world. I write because I’m too selfish to be empathetic.

I write because I like words—their rhythm, their melody, the way they fill a space with sound and light. I write because the world is connected. I write because people are all the same. I write because people make no sense and are totally different. I write because I want someone to listen to me. I write because I found myself in books. I write because I read so much as a kid that I have weak social skills and making friends is hard. I write because sometimes finding a quiet hillside to watch leaves fall and read about other people’s lives becomes lonely.

I write because good people do terrible things. I write because I like making people laugh. I write because I cry when I see kindness and I’m not supposed to feel things that deeply. I write because I like drinking coffee and staring out the window. I write to prove to myself that I’m not lazy or spoiled. I write because I might not be lazy, but I’m definitely spoiled. I write because color and imagery glitter and I like shiny things. I write because magic.

I write because my grandfather built his own house, and I want someone to remember. I write because my grandmother carried demons until she died and passed them on to her children. I write to exorcise them, and I hide my stories from my family. I write because my story is one of many. I write because sometimes red clay roads lead to warm fireplaces and fried catfish and happy dogs. I write because sometimes wraparound porches hide bodies.

I write because everyone loves to hate rednecks. I write because I do, too, but I am ashamed when I meet people with dirt under their fingernails because I know I don’t work that hard. I write because I’m angry. I write because I’m hopeful. I write because I don’t know how to change my own oil or drive a four-wheeler—only how to hold onto the back without falling off. I write because I’m a glutton for punishment. I write because an ex-boyfriend told me writing made me brave.

I write because I spend less time on Gchat these days. I write because I’m manipulative and hypocritical. I write because I’ve been doing it so long I think I have to. I write because I like telling stories. I write to play pretend as a grownup. I write because nothing about me feels very grown up—not my stack of self-obsessed journals or the receipts stuffed in my desk drawer or the scuffed shoes under my bed, the ones I used to wear to punk shows.

I write because I’m crazy enough to believe I could tell you something about yourself.

Laura Steadham Smith's work is forthcoming in Quarterly West and The Red Clay Review and has been awarded the Colby Kullman prize and an AWP Intro Journals prize in fiction. She was also recognized by the Southern Writers Symposium as a notable emerging writer.

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