I was on a date last night–second date, to be exact–and the conversation started to take a more philosophical, deep direction. (One of my favourite things.)

“Why do you write?” he asked.

I sipped my Caesar, somewhat caught off-guard by the question. In all my years wearing the “writer” crown, I have never been asked this simple, direct question. I’ve been asked variations of it, like “what’s your favourite thing to write,” or “have you had anything published,” but never has anybody gone right to the core of it all.

“I have to,” I replied. Perhaps a simplistic reply, but it’s the truth.

I have to write. Somewhere in me, there is a compulsion to sit down with a blank page and a need to try to make sense of this world I live in. Is it how I relate to the world? Probably. Is it how I process events? Absolutely.

I think of the days after my dad had walked out and my maternal grandfather suddenly passed away. I was lost. I had no grip on reality and my entire foundation was in shambles. My boyfriend at the time didn’t know how to help me, so he walked out of the situation to sit on the sidelines. Those three months set me to sea on a jagged piece of waterlogged plywood with no makings of a sail or paddle. I was adrift. I know I’ve blocked out entire days through that time. My mom and brother talk about some family meal or visit, and I have zero recollection of it. None. It’s all black.

The only thing that kept me remotely connected to the world was writing. I’d write on anything I could find: napkins, envelopes, my computer if I had it, looseleaf, anything. In the end, the pain stumbled out of me and I had a poem to read at my grandfather’s funeral, that harnessed the ache, the loss, the darkness. I vaguely remember delievering it at the podium in front of an overflowing church, but I don’t remember much else from that day.

I was so angry and writing was the only thing that kept me sane, kept me human. I think art, whatever the medium, is the thing that humanizes us. We create these beautiful, one-of-a-kind works that are extensions of who we are and offer them to the world. They help guide us through our own messed-up existences and the act of creating brings us together, finds us in this little community where other people understand the sleepless nights of the placement of a quote, or the angst of a misplaced brushstroke, or the nervousness of a misintonated line on stage. We come together and step away in our art, and it’s something that is simply a part of who we are as artists.

The Golden Globes aired last night, and, topically, during her acceptance speech for the Cecil B. DeMille Award for lifetime achievement, Meryl Streep quoted her good friend Carrie Fisher, saying, “Take your broken heart, and turn it into art.”

And maybe that’s where the compulsion comes from, the need to sort through the shattered pieces of your heart, your soul, your being, and turn into something that makes sense.

For me, it’s the only way out.

-kw.