Why I write- by Frank McCourt (author of Angela's Ashes)

Why do I write? The answer is in the question. I write in order to let out the ‘I’ in me out since I was just one of many since my early childhood. I had brothers and sisters; my mother and father; family and friends; the men at the pub and Uncle Pa Keating who was dropped on his head. There were always so many others that I was lost in the mix of the Irish poverty. I was thumped on the head and always hungry. I write try and explain the pain of my childhood and how even after everything, I lived.
My horrifying childhood spread from America to Ireland and the worst part is that I can remember since I was four years old. The most I remember is the worst times, the times of death of my siblings and the breakdowns of my mother. I held in for so long the stories of Cuchulain, the confessions I never told the priest, and how I always had to die, dance, and sing for Ireland.
I write in order to give eulogy to my siblings that did not make it through, to show how Malachy was favored over me, and to simply learn to forgive my mother and father for never keeping their promises. They were always smoking the fags or drinking the black stuff when we had no food to eat. They blamed me for all that Malachy did wrong, yet he was the only one that made it through life with me. I write to expose the Angel of the seventh step as the one person I can talk to. I want to be able to finally let out what I would be thumped on the head for if I ever spoke that way in Grandma’s house. To let everyone know that I threw up God in her backyard, yet trying to confess about it led the Priest to casting me out. I write because the poor pig in the pot that a had to drag down the street gave me such shame that it ended up in a book about my life. I write because everyone died anyway so I am the only one left that cares to remember Margaret, Eugene, Oliver, and my childhood that was buried with them.