Why do I write? I’ve been asked this question a number of times and somehow, people never stayed long enough to hear the answer. Either they realized that the question was a mistake or it was just a question to be polite. Asking me why I write is like asking why I breathe. I need to live and writing allows me a life worthy of living. It’s not an escape from what my doctor labeled as clinical depression. Putting down words and giving it life is healing of wounds. I made my heart and mind healthy by trying to live with my scars. What writing does is that it reaches deep down as a salve and soothes the pain. Writing is a balm that lets me live day by day in a better way.
Just as anyone gets excited about traveling, adventure, a song or a show, I feel the same way about writing. I never stopped feeling the exhilaration of being able to put down into words the emotions and thoughts that crashes into my brain. I think a lot and my brain would explode and over spill if I can’t get them out.
Writing is my storage area. When I need these thoughts I’ll know where I placed it and I can use it. Most of all, I cannot, not even for a second, imagine myself not writing. Asking me to stop writing is like telling me to kill myself. Writing is not just creating a world to escape or to sink in to. It’s giving the world an idea or a principle. It’s a way of giving back to the world. It’s not a hobby, an obsession or even a lifestyle. It’s life in itself. Writing is life.