Writer Gone RogueMinimize

“I feel..I dunno, off.  Like my life’s standing still.”

“Did you write today?  Have you written at all recently?”

“Actually, I wrote today for the first time since I was in the UK.  Before that…I didn’t even want to write at all.”

“You have to write.  It’s a part of you and it’s not an option.”

“I know, Mom.”

“You always get like this when you haven’t written.”
“I know.”
“Some people can take it or leave it, but not you.”

“I know.”

“You just have to write, Jess.”

The conversation I had with my mom got me thinking about why I do write.

I write because I love it.

I write because I hate it.

I write because I language is so fascinating to me and I love words.

I write because I love hearing or reading a good story.

I write because not writing means I go crazy.

I write because it’s my way of processing this beautiful and terrifying thing called life.

I write because when I do, and I’m in the flow, time slows to a crawl and every moment tastes like honey.

I write because it’s the only way I can get the characters who talk to me to finally hush.

I write because I am searching for the perfect words to describe the indescribable.

I write because a part of me dies when I don’t.

I write because I want to live forever.

I write because it’s exquisite agony.

I write because putting pen to paper is sometimes the only way I can communicate.

I write because stories swirl around me all the time like gossamer threads and those stories become mine to tell and weave together in a tapestry that is uniquely my own.

I write for vengeance…and for justice.

I write because every day becomes livable and doable because I do so.

I write.

Why do you write?

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