Supposedly I’m a writer. Not the kind that churns out novels, epistles, and epic poems through disciplined effort. Nope. I’m the kind of writer who walks around every day, unfinished tales swirling around in my mind, each one begging for the only release available — that their owner write them down somewhere.
Options exist, of course. Notebooks, computers, and iPhones have been known to retain ideas written upon or inside of them. Incidentally, I possess each of these tools. But as I get older, I’m learning that it’s not practical help that I need.
It’s spiritual. Philosophical.
Why write? And will I actually persist? Especially since nothing I say will be particularly new, brilliant, or unique. And because I’ve spent most of my life not writing?
Three reasons: hope, absolution, and release.
I hope someone will enjoy what I write.
I seek absolution for stories now lost forever.
I desire release from the pressure of stories building inside, waiting to be told.
If you’ve made it this far, you may be detecting some…personality issues. I’ll concede those and admit that I don’t ever feel sane, really. That being said, I welcome you to my world with open arms, invite you to pull up a chair, grab your favorite snack, and start mocking me at your leisure.
I’ll laugh right alongside you.