It may sound funny, but it's true.
I'm an intelligent person. Really, I am. But the connection between my brain and my mouth goes on the fritz when I get even a little stressed. I can never come up with a good retort. I just do whatever's necessary to diffuse the situation and make it go away.
Because I hate conflict, and I always feel like I'm being judged.
But I can write.
I'm lucky, really. I was raised well, have good manners, have a decently intelligent brain, and somehow managed to hang onto all those grammar, spelling, and punctuation lessons I learned in school.
And that means that I can put sentences together when no one's looking. I can assemble sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into stories, and I can do it all without anyone interrupting me and telling me that I'm wrong.
And if I do it well, and put it all together in just a certain way, then maybe, just maybe, somebody out there might understand me.
And that's the key to the whole thing. I write because I desperately want to be understood. And I can't seem to manage that most days with my mouth. Oh, you can ask some people who know me, and they'll probably tell you that I'm very well spoken indeed. But from in here, inside this precariously perched noggin of mine, it doesn't usually feel that way.
And so, I write. I write because my need for clarity outweighs almost all other considerations. I write because I have things to say and stories to tell. I write because it's possible that someday, somehow, if I write enough, I might just figure things out.
I might just figure myself out.
And then, I know, I'll write some more.
But that's my story.