Why do I want to write?
Why do I find such joy in doing so?
Is it just my way to express myself, my ideas, my individuality? Is it cathartic for me in some way?
Is it about me?
I pray not.
For if that were the reason, I would be compelled to set aside my pen and paper.
But what is it?
And why do I feel not only a joy in writing, but a compulsion to do so?
As if something would be lost if I did not write?
Would there be?
And the ideas. Where do they come from?
Some from dreams, some from conversations, some from things I read or watch. They grow and develop and suddenly, they are a creation. But not mine. I couldn’t take credit as the ideas just come to me.
At the same time, I know I must build, develop and expound.
Writing is a crazy thing.
The call to write, even more so.
Yet there are few things more wonderful than to write and post or publish, and someone says, “That’s what I’ve always thought, or felt,” or, “It answered a question I’ve always had,” or, “How did you do that? It made me cry, or laugh, or decide to dream again.”
Writing is more than just self-expression. It’s making your heart, your very soul, available for all to see.
Why would anyone choose such vulnerability?
Perhaps it’s a hope that someone will find, within the words, a reflection of their own soul.
Their own questions and fears, hopes and dreams, passions and wishes.
And maybe then have the courage to likewise reach out to see their dreams realized or to overcome their fears, and find faith. Hope. Love.
This is why I write.