[Editor’s note: Sometimes I teach a class for Women on Writing that I call “Writing is a Friend with Extraordinary Benefits.” The following essay by Katherine Clarke is reprinted with permission of the author, is an example of what happens in this class — one writer’s words offering extraordinary benefits for each of us who write.]

Like many people who live with a dog, I often gaze at our Goldendoodle and wonder, “Why does he do that?” He slides the side of his face along the satin bedskirt. Why? It feels good. He naps with his head angled up against the wall. Why? It feels good. Carrying the empty laundry basket is no easy task for a soft mouth retriever but he pesters until we give it to him. He’s bred to bring things and so, despite struggling to get a grip on it, carrying feels good. He gets to figure out how to do his job and contribute to the pack. Pondering my own motivations to write I’ve learned the same answer applies: I do it because it feels good. I get to be creative, competent and part of a community.

Feeling good has been a challenge for me as the neuromuscular disease I live with progresses. I wake up in the morning to the din of my body shouting about what hurts. My face objects to being sandpapered by the bipap machine that keeps me breathing while I sleep. My shoulder shrieks about the fire burning where the cartilage used to be. The bursitis in my hip hollers about term limits to weight bearing. My back whines and my swollen feet twitch, complaining that nobody cares about them now that they have no feeling. Writing gives me a reason to tune them out and get out of bed. I want to write because when I am writing I am not experiencing pain. Writing brings me a creative flow that rinses through my body, puts out fires, frees up clogs and soothes me. Writing feels good.

Writing also feels good because it gives me a reason to learn. I love learning, researching and discovering. Writing gives me something to do with the ideas and information I find. Yesterday, feeling exhausted and physically pummeled from a rough night of pain, I opened my email and found an announcement from a knitting designer I follow. Her description of the four “stories” comprising her new pattern collection inspired me to use the form to structure my memoir. I took off making notes about how I’d apply it to my writing, forgot about my aching body and quickly became energized and upbeat.

Writing gives me a reason to make the effort to go out. Last night I went with my spouse to an artist’s talk at our local college of art and design. The speaker, a survivor of a double mastectomy who runs topless in 10K. breast cancer fundraisers, calls herself a “creative trespasser.” She bounded around the front of the lecture theater describing transgressive experiences she designs, her speech erupting with imagination and humor. I loved being in the room full of students and artists. I began to pop with ideas and our dinner conversation afterward was refreshed, filled with laughter and talk of writing. I want to write because being creative makes me want to be alive.

I want to write because every morning writing says to me: Come on in! So glad you’re here. We’ve been waiting for you because we have a lot of questions. We need your opinion on matters that are important to us. We’ve taken it as far as we can and now we need to hear what you think. Want a cup of coffee?

I’m reminded of how I felt at work: competent. I feel especially accomplished when someone says they were helped by what I wrote. Writing lets me be good at something and contribute. I can no longer cook gourmet meals or set a beautiful table–heck I can’t even put on my own shoes. But I can write, when I want, where I want and without assistance from anyone. And I can make a difference.

Writing gives me a reason to sit at the cherry table in my study in our new home in Sarasota, looking out on palm trees and a bird of paradise in bloom. Writing is portable and when I want a change of scene I have something to do, somewhere else, like the pool or a café or an outlook at the beach. Instead of rueing my inability to swim or walk on sand I can dwell in these community spaces and write. I see people coming and going and feel like I belong. Writing lets me join groups and go to conferences, virtually and in person. I’m a member of the community.

Writing is a magic carpet that whisks me out of my body and takes me wherever I want to go. I ride the currents of air, swooping and diving effortlessly, surveying a limitless terrain. When something takes my fancy I land, enjoy, and then fly on as I wish.

I started writing to discover how to go forward with my life. My question was: How do I get out of bed every morning knowing I’ll be a little worse than the day before? What I’ve discovered is that writing itself is the answer. Martin Seligman, a founder of Positive Psychology, wrote the book Authentic Happiness in 2002. In 2011 he published Flourish: A Visionary New Understanding of Happiness and Well-being and apologized for initially getting happiness wrong. He said, “Just as the good life is beyond the pleasant life, the meaningful life is beyond the good life.” Human beings need more than happiness. We need meaning. Even though I often struggle to get a grip on the empty laundry basket of a blank page, writing gives me a meaningful life.