It's been almost nine months since I started this journal and, except for when I have been traveling, I've written every day. Who would have thought it? I sure didn't. I started writing when Lobotomy Babe and Mary did. When they started writing, I turned the idea over in my head. Could I do it? Did I want to do it? A little encouragement from Bev and I was on my way. I know why I began: peer pressure. The question today is why I continue. The why is linked to the who.

For whom do I write? Partially, I write for an audience. I'm not one of those journalers who write anonymous and hope no one finds me. I was only partially anonymous from the beginning. True, I didn't use my real name, not then, and I've never used my last name but I was detailed enough about my life and who I was that the guy I left for Mr. Philately instantly recognized me when he came across the journal by chance. Mr. Philately and the kids knew about the diary right away and my parents and siblings knew soon after.

Sometimes the audience is mainly me. My thoughts organize themselves on paper from the flotsam and jetsam floating around my mind. The journal is a voyage from what I believe I'm considering to what I?m really think deep down. Sometimes I sail across the surface of a glassy lake and other times I kayak down white water. The beauty of the journal is that I know where I've been and how I've arrived at my destination. (Rarely, I even can see where I took a wrong turn.)

Sometimes the audience is immediate family. My writing has been good for us as a family. It's allowed me to communicate with my daughters and husband differently than I do day-to-day. Earlier this week, I wrote out my frustrations with Day-Hay and then, a day later, I read them to her, along with the guestbook commentary of my youngest sister. I don't know that she accepted all of it but I saw the smile when I described what I love about her. She heard my journal as she rarely hears my discussions or lectures. Kat, upon reading of my view of her neurologist, was surprised that I understood so well.

Sometimes, the audience is all of you. I'm a social being in a largely solitary profession. I write briefs that go to judges I never see and get back decisions from them that occasionally make me wonder whether they have read them at all. While some days I write and get no response, other days the guestbook entries and e-mail just come rolling in. Once in a while, I even get graded. (Sorry about that D, brother dear. I'll try harder next time---as long as it is a time I'm awake when writing.)

So why do I write? I write because all of you make it so gratifying. I write because it help me sort out thoughts. I write because doing it every day is a challenge and helps keep me from boredom. Most of all, though, I write because I write. It's become what I do. And, ultimately, what I do is a big part of what I am. I don't write stories. I don't write poems (and no, a bit of doggerel is not poetry). But I am a writer.

Thus goes the circle. I'm a writer because I write and I write because I am a writer. Aren't you glad I cleared that up?

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