I’m not entirely sure why I write. I enjoy it, I know that. But why? Why do I feel the need to write? To choose my words carefully. To keep a journal. To scribble notes to myself that pertain to nothing. To come up with characters that I am always reworking. What is the point and why do I do it?
I could probably give a half dozen reasons for all of those, and could bullshit my way through some psychological crap to back it up. But I go with short version: because I can.
It’s fun to do such things. I really get into. I look at the little things in life I enjoy like certain TV shows or movies and realize it all began with some writer wanting to put his or her ideas to paper for the simple reason that he or she enjoyed it. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m just ranting and bullshitting and gleefully wandering through life typing out whatever I want for whomever is willing to read it just to see how they would react. It’s why I sometimes I just ramble. Why I sometimes write really weird things like talking to my pants. Why I’ll go on and on about baseball or a review a movie or babble on about a video game. Because it’s just plain fun.
It’s the art of creativity. Something I have been attracted to since I was first able to move. I have a vivid imagination. One that runs wild from time to time and can touch down on pretty much any subject or theme. Give me any small, basic premise and I can run with it for weeks or months on end. I can turn a simple idea and come up with a novel. Make a name into an ever changing story about a man who lives forever…
I do it because I love it. And I hope this is the real deal. I’m finally feeling motivated again. Like I can sit down and really work on it. The big one. The story I’ve always wanted to get out there. It’s changed a lot over the years and I believe I am finally happy with what I have in my head. But who knows. May change again. We shall see.
