Why Must I Write?
I write because I’m a writer
This question was posed in my writers’ group yesterday: Why must you write, and when did you discover you wanted to be a writer? I am grateful to have been asked that question at such a time as this (a season where I’ve let my writing lapse), and below is the answer…a work in progress.
Why do I write? I write because my love compels me to — my fascination and infatuation with the potent potential of words requires that I play with them. I must exercise new and glittery ones at regular intervals — I must find their meaning, absorb them, and receive the transference of verbal power. I am in awe by the idea that with a few strokes of the pen — or taps of a keyboard — I can search my personal lexicon quarry and build a structure that previously never existed. Writing is my Adam and Eve creation story — taking a piece (or pieces) and making a new and unique whole. I like sewing words together as a designer makes couture — fashioning them into something beautiful and bigger than life and odd…having the freedom to show off and hear applause.
Why do I write? The finite confines of my mind require it. Thoughts press up and against the perimeters of my brain like straphangers on a rush-hour train. The pressure must be relieved, or there will be pushing. The thoughts and words that carry them must be freed. They have things…
