I write

I’m a writer. That’s what I do. That’s what I tell everyone. Well, most everyone. Apparently there are some days I forget to tell myself. As writers we are supposed to write, but there are days I will go without writing. And I can feel it. I get so caught up in the minutia of life and all the “stuff” I have to do that I just somehow forget to write.

How does someone do that? How does someone forget to live their passion? But somehow I have managed. But those are the days I feel that everything is off. Those are the days that I feel as if I have forgotten something. Where are my keys, did I answer that text? I wrack my brain and I don’t realize that the thing I am forgetting is the thing that drives me. I forgot to write.

So I write. Then on those nights I can sleep. Those are the days I relax. Those are the days that I smile. Because on those days, I have lived my passion. I have let myself loose on the page and run barefoot through my imagination. All those thoughts and stories that are pounding, yelling and fighting to get out have been released to live beyond the cage of my mind.

I write so I don’t go insane. Many a writer has said that exact same thing. So many stories and people live in our minds and the deep recesses of our souls. Entire worlds that we have created knowingly and sometimes unknowingly suddenly spew forth almost faster than our fingers can manage.

It is exciting, energizing and occasionally frightening. How can I think such thoughts? Why did I create such a character? It is as if our brains are wired differently than others and perhaps they are.

We are told about right and left brain and the logical and the creative. Nice little boxes of explanation. The ego and the id. Labels, labels, and more labels that do not suit those of us that are compelled to tell stories.

Some have their nice schedule and routine to produce their nice little product in a nice organized fashion. Then there are the others that are a chaotic mess of notes, ideas and flurry. (I am sure you can guess which category I fall into.) But no matter our style, genre or rate of storytelling, we all do it for the simple reason that we must.

For me it was something I first felt as a young child in grade school. I did not listen. It kept quiet but was always there reminding me. Finally many years later, I quieted my mind and listened to that voice. The voice of my dream. The voice of my passion. The voice of a writer.

We as writers let in the dark, the light and the storm. We let in the sunshine, the hope and the strength. We create lives for others to experience in our words to inspire, comfort and encourage. And often we remind them that they are not alone. Our characters provide a view to a world that can be even if their current world is not what they want or need. The words on our pages reach down and lift them up. To help them stand tall or at least stand for something.

So I like many others around the world continue to put pen to paper – or fingers to keyboards – and tell our tales. Love and woe, pain and redemption. As it has been since man first created the written word, and even before that, there have been storytellers. We dream dreams and face each day anew as we tell our stories. Because when it comes right down to it, we have no choice but to do so.