Day 1

Why I write:

I write because I have feelings. I write because there are things that run through my mind that I can’t talk about with the average person. I write because I feel pain and I want to express it. I write because I am longing for something I can’t have. I write because it allows me to escape to the places I want to go but can not. 

I write because the words seem heavier in print. They inject emotion that my voice can not elicit. I write for the simple fact that you or I can reread it and examine the meaning behind the words. This print is stationery. My voice is fleeting, once the sounds have reverberated back the echo has become inaudible. But this print is timeless.

I write about what my heart wants. I write about the things I can not do at the moment or the life I wish I lived. I create characters that I envy. I tell stories that I hope to be my own one day.  I write because my mind is trapped at a desk for 40 hour work weeks when my heart is somewhere else. I write to free myself from the cage.

I write because I want to be like other great writers. Their words have touched me deeper than what I knew I possessed. I write because maybe one day I will do the same for someone else. Macquarie, Ruark, Babcock, and even Gene Hill, they all have their place at the table of blame.

I write because it is a stress valve. On my worst days, writing comes easy, falling out of my finger tips like rain drops on to the key board. Interestingly, I can not write when I am too happy. My mind will not focus. Perhaps that is why Ruark died of cirrhosis at such an early age. Not that I think it is fair to compare myself to the author of The Old Man and the Boy. But I write what I want.

I write because it settles my soul. I can not hunt pheasant in June, but I can imagine that I am when I write it. I can feel the wind and smell the burnt grass and see the blue skies above me, if only I write it that way. I am in control of my story, my shortcomings are my own. My adventures are only limited to my imagination. If I want to reminisce about wood ducks calling over the swamp of my grandfather’s farm, I am there with a few strokes on the key board. If I want to fabricate a quail hunt in the southern pine stands, I do it. Even though it is middle of summer and the quail have been gone since before I was born. The power is all in my hands.

I don’t know of any other pastime that can give this much and take so much from you. It is amazing to think that my subtle thoughts at this very moment could be read hundreds of years from now, maybe even studied. Probably not for their literary prowess, but maybe as archeological curiosity. So why wouldn’t I write?