So, I’ve been thinking lately a lot about why I started writing in the first place. And that’s a complicated answer. Because I don’t really know all the facets yet myself.
I just had to.
There’s a story in my head. There are characters who have become best friends. There’s a need and the only outlet is the keyboard. So I write.
I write because I have to. I write because there’s a story in my heart.
But that sounds so trite. So cliche. And we all know how much I hate the cliche.
To go deeper, though, is a true dissecting of my writer’s soul. Part of me loves the story. I love the thrill of the chase, the taste of victory, and the ecstasy of a job well done. Those are parts of my life that I don’t get in drastic measures since I’m not a detective saving the world.
There’s a part of me that loves to deal with the nitty-gritty of heartbreak, loss, and what it really takes to do the jobs no one else is willing to do. But not enough of me to be a shrink. I don’t like people that much.
There’s a part of me that loves the escape. The ability to be someone else for a while. To play pretend. I guess that part of our childhood never really goes away. But the adult part of us knows its not feasible in everyday life.
There’s a part of me that loves the thrill of doing something that not a lot of people can do. Saying “I’m a published author” is saying “I have determination, creativity, stubbornness, a thick shell, a talent, and stick-to-it-ness” in three words. I’m telling people that I can do the thing they dream of doing someday, only I’ve made it happen now. Maybe that’s my ego speaking.
All these play into why I’m a writer. Why, at the end of the day, I lay my head down on the pillow and sink into a whole new world before I fall asleep. Why I can sit for hours at a time with ‘nothing to do’ and yet never be bored. Why I don’t need creative little memes to help me dream of a world better than this one.
I’m a writer.
It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.