Why I Write

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I write because I can.

I write because when life makes it so difficult to be real, this is the only way I know how to be completely honest.

I write because I love it and because there are so many things worth writing about.

I write to be heard. For even just one other reader out there who gives a damn about the relatively coherent thoughts that my fingers type out.

But most of all, I write for me.

"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect."― Anaïs Nin

I grew up in love with the art of writing. I wrote anything from pretentious poems to fan fiction to short stories to essays―everything. 

Eventually I took that love and made my way to a degree in Journalism, which gave me a wake up call.

I would never get rich by writing. It's not that I don't care about bigger issues in the world, but I had no business writing about the things that matter: economy, politics and news, because I didn't understand them. I was afraid to be told that I had no business writing.

So I retired by virtual pen for a few years, trading it in for a corporate attire and a respectable nine-to-five.

And I thought I loved it. I was good at what I did, and I had a career path that would make my family proud.

To an extent, I still love it. But it isn't me. It never was and might never be.

Over a year ago, I experienced the worst heart break of my life (which isn't actually saying much in retrospect, seeing as I'm only 20-something).

For a year, I felt hopeless. I had thoughts and feelings that I had no way of letting out. I tried to drink it out, party it out, smoke it out, cry it out and ignore it altogether.

So a few months ago, I opened a new Word document and began to write. My fingers moved across the keyboard faster that I'd ever seen it. I was no longer composing a random piece. I was pouring my heart and soul out into it, my ink being the thoughts I was afraid to say out loud, the words I could never form right, the feelings I could finally release.

That piece came out on Thought Catalog. It only reached a handful of people, and even fewer took the time to leave comments and send me direct messages. Messages that thanked me for writing, that told me to keep writing because I was good at it.

One after another, I wrote article after article, having ten posted on the website within a month. I couldn't stop.

And I no longer intend to.

Writing again was like waking up after a long, restless sleep. I never want to sleep again.

It's no longer about making money off my writing or reaching one million people through my words. It's become irrelevant what I should or shouldn't write because of what people would say.

I write for me. About life, about love, about real experiences that other people may not care about. But I will keep writing because this is what I was meant to do and what I love to do. And I'm putting this out there in the hopes of reaching even just one other person out there among the billions who live. One other person who wants to write, who wants to read. Who wants to be heard.

I'd always known I had a skill in writing, a skill that I acquired through years of writing electives. Recently, I was told that it wasn't a skill. It was a talent. And I'm sorry if this comes off arrogantly, but now I know it's true.

And if I was lucky enough to have been granted such a talent, how terribly selfish would it be for me to stop writing just because of fear?

My name is Katrina Tamondong, and until recently, I was only ever a corporate drone.

Now I am a writer. A simple person with no great acts to my name, no talent worth millions to speak of, no beauty society would exploit. Just an ordinary human being who has once loved and lived an average life. Who still does. An ordinary writer who writes about simple ordinary things.

But why do I write?

Because I can. Because I want to. Because I love to.

Because this is what I was meant to do.