Member-only story
Why Write?
Why, day after day, or more typically for me, night after late night, do I often spend the time typing late into the wee hours looking for that perfect phrase, that wonderful sentence, the turn of character or scene or dialogue that rings just right? When I could be happily sleeping away, oblivious.
Is it because the rest of the hours spent during the day are less than perfect? The minutes spent on hold with someone somewhere who barely can understand me over the crackle of the cell phone, and the insistent surveys all those calls have at the end where you just don’t have the heart to tell them how you really feel? Is it the disappointment spent in line, at lunch on errands, or at your desk doing the myriad, mundane tasks that the world gives you?
Is it the chance to dream up the perfect relationship between your imaginary characters, and move them around to your will, or to create perfectly imperfect people that demand to jump right out onto your page? Is it the chance to learn more about yourself, the more you write? Your faults, your weaknesses, but also your strengths and courage? Is it the chance to etch that perfect poem that will perhaps stand and soar years from when it was written? Is it the change to connect, however fleetingly, with readers and writers from all over the world who understand this strange compulsion, and presumably appreciate your work?
