Why do I write?
Is this a question you have asked yourself recently?
It is one that has presented itself to me afresh. I recently read Jeff Goins excellent book, You Are A Writer, and that further agitated this quest to get my words out to a world that may or may not be waiting for them – the honest truth is, right now at least, I could not care less.
Whether they are read or not read, they still must be written!
The rare flower seated on top of a secluded and unscaled mountain pleases only the eye of the One who made it, but it is no less significant for it’s seclusion. It exists with inherent beauty not measured by the applause or appreciation of others.
So it is with words. They are the song of the heart unfurled. One might contend that they have little purpose beyond being read, but a million secret journal entries argue otherwise.
Words have a life of their own.
The writer’s heart bursts with words that must be penned, or the life within the writer dies. The flame flickers and grows dim in the absence of expression.
Each word. Every dot of the ‘i’ and cross of the ‘t’. All carve out a pathway to the words that will one day be worthy of the world’s attention.
Why do I write?
Because without these unread, uncelebrated, inconspicuous moments of self revelation, the road toward those pages I am destined to write will never be walked.
Each stroke of the pen or strike of the key, a faltering step forward.
Each idea and expression reaching for something that lies ahead, calling me forward. They assure me that not one word will ultimately fall to the ground. Not. One. Wasted.
I write because I must. Because I am. A writer.
What other reason could there be?
