Why do writers write? What urges a person to put pen to paper or fingers to keys? From the very beginning of civilization, there have been writers. As a writer, I often ask myself this question (especially when it’s 1 a.m. and I am drinking wine to fuel inspiration. A writer in their natural habitat). I don’t have an answer. Sorry to disappoint you. No, I write to know the answer.
During my writing journey, I have realized that most of my writing endeavors take place in a state of desperation. During a time of… relief seeking? Soul searching? There is an emptiness, it seems, or perhaps, the overabundance of something undefined.
I am no philosopher, not even a student of literature (I know, I’m an impostor). I do know one thing. I write to know what lies beneath. Buried somewhere deep, under my skin or trapped in my brain are these words that must be released or I will combust. Those words are sometimes in the form of an image or a feeling, or a phrase. Whatever manifestation, I must write it down.
Tonight, for example, I have one of those itches where I know I can’t possibly sleep without putting something down. Ink is blood.
Writers write not for their own well-being; it often drives them mad, but for the greater cause. Writers open the portals to worlds begging to be exposed. There are voices in their heads chanting and begging and pleading to be heard. It’s a funny lifestyle, but it’s one that I love, and I live for it.
The next time you read a book or watch a film or see a play… know that a writer bled for your escape.
Until next time,