Why do I write? It’s a question I’ve often pondered upon.
I have no definitive answer. I write because the voices in my head are clamouring to be given life. I write because the characters in my head are demanding to be given form. I write because I have no choice if I’m to be able to find some relief from the kaleidoscope of images running through my mind every second of the day. But mainly I write because the act of writing is soothing and structured.
Sometimes I find myself jotting down a thought, an overheard string of words, the details of someone’s outfit, someone’s mannerisms – all are potential fuel for a short story, a poem, a longer piece of writing.
I write because I can’t draw or paint. I write because I love words and words can conjure images in the mind, images in someone else’s mind. I write because the muse is talking to me. I write because I have to.