Now You Know Why I Write. What Is Your Story?
I never really know what to expect when I sit down to write, I just write. I write, as the words flow from the innermost recesses of my mind to clog the once pristine paper before me. I write, as I push my pen to paper, or my fingers to the keyboard in hopes of revealing some new altruism that has yet been undiscovered; a surreptitious attempt at weeding out the hidden truth creeping behind my fictitious words. I write to discover pieces of myself within my characters.
I write, because I am forever haunted by the scratchy movies that play out in my mind. Rewinding, replaying, rewinding, rewriting, retooling, and replaying until at last, every scene is perfection in my mind and ready to be transformed into prose. They incessantly nag at me until I finally bring them to life with words.
I write to bring my daydreams to life and to put my nightmares to rest. I write to glorify the lord and to fight my demons. I write to answer the questions of my imagination, and my fears of the future. I write to remember life’s precious moments and dispel its abuses. I write to bring life to my soul’s diary. Sometimes the entries clog my thoughts as they jockey for position to be freed from my mind. My mind, a cataclysm of thoughts where each idea faces oblivion as it is chased by my ever fading memory, and so they fight to stay alive. They struggle for screen time in my head. Sometimes stalling in place until they are lost forever, sometimes blocking the exit so that no thought escapes, but every so often surprising me with a sudden burst of brilliance. It is then that I really write with a blizzard of words flurrying forth and falling like a dark snow upon the paper.
I write for others. To feed a world that is hungry to consume each written word. A world hungry to digest each writer’s soul to either find countenance in the feast or a ravenous hunger for more fulfillment. I write for my family, my legacy, to share myself with those precious few right now and after my soul has journeyed past this life. I write to find freedom, and in that freedom to find the solace I so desperately seek.
That is why I write, it is my living testament that I existed upon this Earth. So now I pose the question to all those who would read these words.
For each writer and each consumer of words, I ask, “What is your story?”
I write, because I am forever haunted by the scratchy movies that play out in my mind. Rewinding, replaying, rewinding, rewriting, retooling, and replaying until at last, every scene is perfection in my mind and ready to be transformed into prose. They incessantly nag at me until I finally bring them to life with words.
I write to bring my daydreams to life and to put my nightmares to rest. I write to glorify the lord and to fight my demons. I write to answer the questions of my imagination, and my fears of the future. I write to remember life’s precious moments and dispel its abuses. I write to bring life to my soul’s diary. Sometimes the entries clog my thoughts as they jockey for position to be freed from my mind. My mind, a cataclysm of thoughts where each idea faces oblivion as it is chased by my ever fading memory, and so they fight to stay alive. They struggle for screen time in my head. Sometimes stalling in place until they are lost forever, sometimes blocking the exit so that no thought escapes, but every so often surprising me with a sudden burst of brilliance. It is then that I really write with a blizzard of words flurrying forth and falling like a dark snow upon the paper.
I write for others. To feed a world that is hungry to consume each written word. A world hungry to digest each writer’s soul to either find countenance in the feast or a ravenous hunger for more fulfillment. I write for my family, my legacy, to share myself with those precious few right now and after my soul has journeyed past this life. I write to find freedom, and in that freedom to find the solace I so desperately seek.
That is why I write, it is my living testament that I existed upon this Earth. So now I pose the question to all those who would read these words.
For each writer and each consumer of words, I ask, “What is your story?”
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