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Why Women Write
 Why do I write — why do I breathe, walk, speak, and eat? To stay alive,
to think, to look out, to be. I used to say I was writing about my life to
find out what happened but I no longer say that. I don't care as much as
I used to whether I am remembering episodes that really happened or repeating
the stories I have heard, or made up for myself about these episodes.
 I used to think of my life as stretching out ahead of me, almost to infinity.
It seemed an endless journey full of anguish, trials, disappointments, conflict,
and struggle. I thought I would never arrive at a destination.
 Recently I have been planning my 88th birthday celebration. I settled on
a picnic outdoors at our cottage on the river, similar to the ~ of July celebration
we have often had. We cook a haunch of venison on the fire, sometimes swim
or take a boat ride on the river, and retreat to the gazebo if mosquitoes
emerge at dusk.
 The planning of the birthday made me realize the journey will end —
not just now, but in a while — maybe a few years down the road —
(my mother died at 89) — my daughters V think I might last another
10 or more. Of course I may dieV. ~ tomorrow — people die every day.
But I feel unbelievably well, satisfied with myself — because the end
of it allis in sight. The journey will end in arriving somewhere —
not necessarily here, but somewhere.
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