When I’m at Dad’s the rain smells like freshly cut grass and wood smoke. First thing in the morning Dad checks the weather. “Supposed to rain later, better get out there and mow the lawns. I can see the flowers.” Robyn gets up and wraps her fluffy robe around her. “How about I light the fire?” I flip on the jug and make us all cups of tea. The fire’s roaring by the time Dad comes in smelling like grass and petrol. “Go have a shower Terry, you stink,” Robyn calls from the kitchen. The rain starts to fall. The sweetness of the decapitated daisies fills the house and as I open the door to the fire to place more wood on the flames, the smoke seeps out with the heat. I lie on the rug in front of the fire and sip my tea.
So I stole the title “Why I write” off Joan Didion who admits to stealing it off George Orwell, but my reasons are not the same as the reasons she starts out with. Joan liked the way it sounded, liked what it implied, for myself I liked the idea of trying to articulate the compulsion that comes over me daily. The idea that Joan expresses through simile and metaphor implying the writer is a bully seems to be the opposite of my own intentions, for I do not intend to inflict the reader with opinions which are written to encourage a certain mindset but merely use writing as a selfish form of release. I can rid myself of ideas, feelings and thoughts that I no longer wish to hold on to, by putting pen to paper, by tapping on some keys.