Why do I write?
One year ago my husband, Szymon, handed me a thick untitled book.
“What is it?” I said.
I found only blank pages with spaces for photographs. My husband smiled.
“Here are the photographs from our vacations. Let’s order them chronologically.”
We finished the project two weeks later, but half of the album remained empty. “What should we do with it?” I said.
“Write something,” my husband said.
I had always yearned to write but never had the reason. Now, I had a legitimate cause. I could write down our memories and create a souvenir. After a month, I had written three texts ready to print.
“Why don’t we create a blog for you?” Szymon said. You could publish your work there. And you’ll learn something new.”
“Why not?” I said.
In no time, I had published my writing online. A mixture of apprehension and excitement rushed down my spine. The thrill was a sign of transition from thinking about writing to executing it.
The first trip in my life was in the Tatra Mountains when I was only six months old. My parents were in their mid-twenties and didn’t want to stop going mountain hiking solely because of parenthood. Often they were scorned for taking such a small child to such a risky trips. At the trails, people looked at them with disdain or commented. But for my parents, taking me wherever they went was natural. They ingrained wanderlust in their baby girl and curiosity about the world.
They passed on a code of being independent, ambitious, proud, and determined. So I became true, well-bred Cracovian, who got married in a summer castle of Polish kings, on a throne, with the ceremony witnessed by the portraits of stern Polish monarchs. It was the power of the vows that propelled me to rethink my actions.
Though I had the necessary ingredients to write: memories, desire to travel, observations, but I never allowed myself. Instead, I pursued English as my major, taught English as a Second Language, read a lot, and learned French. I always thought I needed to push the perfection bar further and further before writing. Finally, having the courage to write all boiled down to my love for words and love for writing – and a not so subtle push from my husband to start the ball rolling.
I unwrapped my presents last Christmas Eve. I found a small envelope with a card inside. I read it quickly and looked up at my husband.
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. I love your writing. A writing course will do you good. Go for it!”
I grinned with love.
And here I am.