“Why you write?” is a question that I sometimes ask myself.
I know that I cannot really say. It might be because my life is so boring I have to have something to look forward to. Or it might be because if I don’t write, I get an itch that cannot be scratched physically. You might say it is an obsession. That little bit of question that tickles you with that “what if?” and drives you insane until you have to answer it. It is a drug in its own way an addiction that you have to satisfy. It is a challenge that you must overcome, or wear your fingers to the bone trying. It is a hunger that you cannot ignore, driving you farther into the story, into lives of people of your own creation. And when you finally write “the end” it is a bittersweet feeling of completion and longing for more.
I am not a letter writer, I do not do well with regular correspondence from other people. I write stories. I write tales of things that we sometimes wonder about. I write about dreams. Sometimes the stories are concrete and relative to this world, and sometimes they are so far beyond them, well it is fantasy.
I write because it is a release, a way for me to show my dissatisfaction of my world and life. I write because it is a way to show my joy of things around me. It is my way of expressing myself to those around me. It is my voice, my song, my life and a reflection of everything around me.
Why do I write? I write because the words are what I am, who I am, and why I am here. I write because I love the words on the page, the scent of ink, the feel of paper under my hand. I write because words are a mystery and I have not quite figured out the hidden codes that I know are in there. I write because I can reach the world without even walking out the door. I write because that is what I am.