On Writing - Why Do We Do It?

>> Tuesday, July 5, 2011

To those days when I wonder why it is that I keep struggling to put pen to paper, fingers to keys in some semblance of literary contortionism...I pout and spew sentences hoping for the wordplay to hit a bullseye.

Why is it that I or you write? What keeps you creating pages of posts when the traffic meter suggests that no one is watching? How do we keep our spirit unbroken knowing that publishers are not going to stumble onto to our messages of wit and witticism?

I write to keep the demons imprisoned on paper instead of raining about. I write to aspire, inspire and justify.

I write to put on a purple cape and tiara and wave my hand queen-like and poised instead of bohemian and borrowed.

I write to visit villages and tribes I'll never see, children I'll never save, wells I'll never build.

I write to cut the distance and fill the trough. I write to unravel strings and millennia of being misunderstood.

I write to tightrope the edge between poetry and prose.

I write about who I am, who I'm not and who I want to be.

I write because I am too young to die and too old to play.

Because no one has written the epic I want to read.

I write to gasp ideas and exhale trilogies, to roll around words like marbles , to flex muscles and preen feathers without drowning in stagefright.

I write because I’ve a vocabulary which can't be caged, defanged or tamed.

I write to infuriate someone, somewhere.

And because it’s the highest form of a ingratiatingly, self-deceptive autobiography.


Why do you write?


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