Why I Write
This was inspired by the difficulty I often have at concisely conveying my experience as a writer. I often see people ask on social media, “Why do you write?” For me, it isn’t so much as a want, but a need.
The urge is always there, just beneath the surface, inescapable. To abstain is to deny a part of myself, to ignore that which drives my very soul.
Pictures and stories plague my waking mind and seep into my subconscious as I dream. I can’t avoid them, can’t escape them—instead, I embrace them. I transform what I visualize into written form, and the words flow endlessly, day after day. It is a passion, a need, a curse. An itch at the base of my brain I must scratch, else I’ll succumb to the madness that some mistake for imagination.
The stories are not my own, nor are they of this world. They haunt me in the darkest hours of the night, hound my steps as I go about my day, pounce upon my mind when I least expect it. A comment, an interaction, a spark of an idea… Nothing more is required for the stories to unfold. And they do.
I am but a conduit. The stories come unbidden and rattle through my mind until I can no longer contain them within. They must be released, must be penned, must be divulged.
Afterwards, there is relief, though it’s temporary. The story has been formed, shaped, transferred from vibrant images to black text on a white page. I am granted a respite for a time. And then a new story arrives, eager to be shared, relentless in its desire to be told.
The cycle repeats, time and again.