For Christmas my husband bought me five books on writing. This is the same gift he got me last Christmas. I’m not complaining. Just like last year, I am devouring the books faster than I can consume a pan of brownies. (Don’t ask how fast I can do that.)
I just finished Stephen King’s On Writing. My most enjoyable part came at the end of the book, his memoir from a car accident that almost took his life. He says, “Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting happy. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.”
This struck a chord with me. We moved to Tulsa two-and-a half years ago. My husband started a surgery residency at St. John’s working upwards of eighty hours a week. And me? I was eight months pregnant with our third kid. After our baby was born, I found myself in an odd situation.
My brain, I swear honest-to-goodness, was atrophying. Changing diapers, laundry, dishes, repeat, just wasn’t making me very happy. Honestly, I was downright depressed.
Then I started writing. My brain woke up. And I realized I had more to live for than dirty diapers. I’m not saying writing saved my life, but I know it made me happier. What Stephen King said about enriching lives? It’s true. I’m living proof.