Why do I write?

Why do I write?

As a little girl of five, I decided I wanted to be a famous Author.  I wasn’t sure I had the talent to be a famous singer, actor, or ballerina.  And I loved books.  So being an author seemed like the only avenue I had to fame and fortune (Ha!).  But though the reasoning changed, the dream never did.

Why do I write?

Because I love to imagine.  I still remember the time (I won’t tell you how old I was!) when one of the boys next door caught me pretending I was riding a horse through the ‘Secret Garden’ by our house. It was embarrassing, but it was a profound moment.  Because maybe I was too old to be prancing around playing imaginary games.  But I realised then that I wasn’t going to stop dreaming up stories, no matter how old I got.  Writing lets me hold onto the best bits of childhood.

Why do I write?

I write because that is how I process this world.  By expressing.  Some of that is done verbally, as I figure out what I think by percolating over it during a phone D&M, a cup of Earl Grey, or even as I pray.  But some thinking can only be done by words on a page. I write to think clearly.

Why do I write?

I write because this world is so beautiful and interesting and so are it’s people and when I write there is this extra shimmer to everything because my eyes open up and I see the beauty that is right there.

Why do I write?

I write because this world can be brutal and hard and sometimes it is nice to go somewhere else for a change.

Why do I write?

During University I was writing a novel about four friends.  And one day I picked up an orange, and I found myself wondering how my book-girls would eat it.  And I realised that Mae would peel it and spend a few minutes removing all the pith before she ate each segment, and Kaye would just chop it with a knife, and Annie would peel it and bite off the tip of a segments and slowly slurp out the juice, and Ella didn’t like oranges, but was too polite to say no when someone handed her a slice (and only Annie and the boy-next-door Matty knew the truth).

Those characters became real people to me.  They lived.  That is why I write.

Why do I write?

Because it is the most glorious hobby I have ever experienced.  It feeds my soul.  It makes me a better person.  There are moments of difficult and struggle, and I know I have only touched the surface of the very scary world of writing rejection.

But the highs?  Those moments when a plot idea sails into your head like a gift.  When the characters you love have a moment of insight or triumph.  When a phrase just sings. When an idea becomes a scene, and a plot becomes a story.  When I go to bed early, just so I can lie under the covers and go to my new world for an adventure.

When I tell people I am a writer I often say that reading a book is like watching a video of someone visiting an amazing place.  Writing is going there yourself.

And that is why I write.

 

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