Why I write

Penned-Letter

Is it necessary for an artist to know why he paints, or a ballerina to know why she is possessed by a passion to ballet? Need a nightingale know why she serenades the sleeping world or the moon understand why he is enraptured by the blue earth, around which he revolves day and night, yet never dares to embrace her for the fear they will collide and die?

There is no want in them to fathom the mystery of those passions that are beyond comprehension.

Then must a lowly writer such as I question why I write?

I know not.

And yet, when the night is starless and witchy, when all is lonesome like a solitary wolf weeping under the moon, when the world is so silent that I can hear the pencil moving against paper, I seek answers…

…to understand why of all the noble trades there are, of the endless streams of possibilities, I picked up the quill and chose to be a writer.

I write… because I know I can. Because it is writing that keeps the artist within me alive. Because there is much pleasure in writing and because writing comes easily to me (or maybe because I find myself bad at all the other things). I can’t remember a day I haven’t been in love with words. Words comfort me, the way no living soul can hope to comfort me.

I write because there is so much to write about, and oftentimes, I am overwhelmed when I see and feel and experience the world around me. It all deserves to be captured in ink, and not in my memory alone.

Writing is self-discovery- like looking into the mirror of the soul to see oneself being truly reflected. It’s a thread that connects me to other people, people sitting half the world across, people I may never even meet. But people who, knowingly or unknowingly, are related to me with the bond not of blood but of words.

I write because I refuse to be silent. Our words have power and it’s the duty of every writer to change what needs change. I write because there is nothing like the freedom a white sheet brings to me. I can write anything, anything at all.

I write because my muse exists. And I, as a writer, consider it my humble duty to put to paper his indescribable graces.

I write because if I don’t, I feel incomplete. I feel like I’m destined to be married to words. Writing is as important as breathing, without which, there is a restlessness inside, like life turning to ash, like drowning in tears, like a pain that will never pass.

Writing is like making love to the virgin paper in the hour of desolation or in the happy hour, knowing that this love will outlast death. It will never abandon me like the lovers who last but a season or two.

I write because only words will understand the pain, the agony, the suffering that I beneath my human cover bear. Are all artists sufferers? I don’t think so. But all artists suffer artistically.

There is a void within me if it isn’t for writing. What life denies me, words afford me. Things too beautiful for reality survive in between inky sheets. And when I weep, my words bleed.

All artists have something only their art can say. And I have, like everyone else, a story to tell.

Writing will bring me the many joys of being a writer, and perhaps fulfill my faint hope of immortality. Or maybe I’ll die unknown, leaving behind some dusty old sheets of forgotten poems. And yet I’ll write the stories I can write today, for there are only a few tomorrows.

There is so much passion contained within words! And though there is plenty that life makes me experience, writing is what makes me experience life.

I write because of all the reasons, I didn’t choose to write, perhaps writing chose me. And there is no me if in me there is no writer.

 

Why do you write?

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21 thoughts on “Why I write

  1. You expressed yourself very well and left me in awe. Yes, your burning words warmed my heart and stirred my imagination. I salute you and encourage you onward. I would add very little to your outpouring of soul, your ocean of words. Words that are from the heart are very special. They are rich in meaning, stretching across the universe, going where no writer has gone before. You go, girl!

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  2. I think almost all of us writers have written a “Why I Write” piece trying to make sense out of this mad drive we have to chase words that refuse to be captured easily. They are one of my favorite topics to read because I can usually relate so well to the struggles and dreams of other writers.

    If you’re interested, here’s mine:

    http://jamesclarkthenextiteration.wordpress.com/2017/05/14/​why-i-write-literary-childbirth/

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  3. I’ll write about it too. The first impulse was to postpone, but then I thought that this post deserves a reply, and in kind. Why do I write? I know, and surely too, that I don’t know all reasons. There’s one thing I know for sure, when I write, while I write, there’s no me. Yes, I am aware of a thinking consciousness and typing/writing fingers, but they actually don’t write. I, as I know myself, don’t write. There’s another being/thing/power that totally takes over and write. Just like now, there’s the one who writes, and the one who keeps observing the cursor advancing and the words being typed. Am I actually thinking and typing? No. It comes, it flows and descends on the page. That’s how I write. The ‘why’ part can now be answered easily. When I write, I am more than my inadequate self. When I write, I actually become the word that I write, word after word. So, I write.

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  4. “ There is a void within me if it isn’t for writing. What life denies me, words afford me. Things too beautiful for reality survive in between inky sheets. And when I weep, my words bleed.“

    Resonated bone deep with this!

    Liked by 1 person

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