I write because it forces me to work through things. When I begin to write, if I am lucky, the words come spilling out. These things need to come out because if I keep them inside they will never get thought through. They will be left only partially formed, waiting to be birthed, but never given the chance. Then they will slowly begin to die as they are forgotten; empty unfulfilled dreams. I write because it keeps my mind going. I write for my subconscious because it has something to say; especially when it feels locked up for so long. I write because it helps me process the world, it helps me to make sense of it. I write because without it I would be lost.
I write because there are characters inside me waiting to be born. I write because I can live vicariously through my characters. The things I want, I can give them. I can show them how to overcome struggles and in doing so overcome my own. I can give them the freedom which sometimes feels elusive in my own life. I can give them everything I want and I can also deprive them. I write because I am frustrated and I want to change the world.
I write to explore different perspectives and lifestyles. In writing I can have people say the things I would never say. I can have them do the things I would never do. I write because I can make things happen that would never be impossible in this world. There are days I go without writing and then one day I wake up and I think “My God, I haven’t written, and it hurts.” Because the words there and inside and they need somewhere to go. And then they come. Sometimes they come so fast and forceful that they become jumbled. The words are out of order and lines don’t make sense. So I have to write faster, type faster, to try to realign them again. But sometimes the overflow is too strong. And the words keep coming. Sometimes the same word comes out five, six, seven times. But eventually it will even out and the flow will stop and come to a steady pace. One I can keep up with.
I write because there is so much beauty that people are missing. If only they could see the beauty. A child would see it, but as adults many have lost sight of all that could be; the castles, the dragons, the lava oozing down the volcano. There is a whole world which goes unseen. I write so people can remember this world of childhood. I write for the unimaginative. I write for my inner child; to keep her alive, to keep her dreaming, and to keep her sane from the chaos of this world. I write to teach her about life.