I write because I have stories that need to be told.
I write because I can’t do anything else.
I write because I have a voice and I want the world to hear it.
I write because I have worlds inside of me waiting to get out.
I write because I can’t process the world any other way.
I write because I am lost.
I write because I feel alone.
I write because I don’t understand.
I write because I want to learn
I write because I know someone will need my story one day.
I write because I am a writer.
I write because I want to change the world.
I write because I am afraid.
I write because I am sad.
I write because I am happy.
I write because I am angry.
I write because I love it and I love it because I hate it…
Writing is the hardest thing in the world. In writing you learn things about yourself that you never wanted to learn. Things that you never knew were important to you. You learn to see your deepest fears and your greatest passions side by side. You see straight to your very soul and you open it up for the entire world to see. You have to do unpleasant things to serve your creativity. You have to sacrifice your very sanity to gain it back. There is nothing more draining and rejuvenating than writing a story that demands to be told.
Writing is a mistress that kisses you with passion and heat, stealing your very breath away before she places a gun beneath your jaw and cocks the hammer, pulling back to gaze at you seductively as she trails her other hand down your chest. You feel all the warmth leave your extremities as your heart tries to beat its way out of your very chest. She smiles at you, letting you know that she can feel it too, your arousal – and your fear – and the hope that you might experience that breathless, warm, passionate kiss just one more time before she pulls the trigger.
Author’s note: This is what I keep in the front of every journal and I read this periodically when I’m getting frustrated with my work. I wrote it in college and it serves as a reminder to myself why I do what I do.