When i think about why I write so many thoughts and reasons flood my mind, so here are a few.
I write because there are stories inside that need to be told, stories that need a voice, stories that need to be heard. When I don’t let them out they strain and push against the wall tries to keep them in.
Some days I write to feel joy or to take the pain from the inside and put it on the outside, to empty my mind and save room for something else.
I write in hopes that the stories I tell will make people laugh, cry, cheer, shout in anger or frustration, I hope they will fall madly in love or go mad with envy. When someone picks up my story, they can be transported from their reality and live as someone else for awhile.
I write so when I tell others of my journey, they to can feel inspired to start their own.
The journey of a writer is not an easy one. Words don’t always flow free, like the waters flowing down a rivers bed. Some days we ask ourselves why we chose this profession in the first place, (little do we know the profession chooses us) and through the tears and tongue lashing we unleash on ourselves, we sometimes tell ourselves “this is it! I am done”. With the light of a new day comes a new perspective and you realize that, the thing that makes you crazy is the thing you crave, the thing you can’t live without.
Writing can be a beautiful melody one day and an ugly breakup the next. Appreciate the beautiful days when we are at our best and ours words make sense. When the bad comes banging on our door, remember the good times, the moments when your words flowed expertly from pen to paper. If you have step away for the day that’s okay, but don’t forget to come back.
Never give up on your dreams, no matter what. Even if you are the only one who believes, because sometimes that all it takes.
Always remember anything worth doing is not meant to be easy.
When I was younger I wrote all the time, I loved to write. My imagination spun at a hundred miles per hour. I knew writing would be my future career. Eventually life got in the way and writing became non-existent, I decided that writing was not practical or stable so I quit and convinced myself I was no good anyway, so therefore the world would not miss anything. I choose a different path, but that path brought me no joy.
I realized that the desire to write never died, it was suppressed for many years. Three years ago the writer woke up and I wrote, some was crap, and some was really good, I felt alive, I was happy, but still out of fear of not being good enough along with the need to be notice, or negativity you sometimes face when you those words “I would love to write a book” leaves your mouth, I began to silence the writer yet again, but she refused to be quiet.