"Drawing The Story"--April 24th, 2008

Why I Write...

I write out of necessity; I write out of desire. I write for the sheer joy of creating life on paper and I write because if I ignored the inner voice within my mind, it would drive me mad. And the irony in that truth is to be successful as a writer of fiction, you have to (at moments at least) lose your mind and escape the realities of the world around you in order to draw a story with words about a world that doesn’t necessarily exist, detailing the pains and sufferings and the joys and happiness of the characters we create on paper. You have to answer their call to tell their story.

My writing is so much a part of my everyday life no less than breathing, eating or drinking. Writing however is voluntary and because of that you have to force it—even when it isn’t time—because like taking a breath or eating food or drinking water to survive, to ignore the voices within your mind, you suffocate, starve and dehydrate your creative soul. And when your soul suffers, so too does your body.

Writing is the action that brings me balance and offers me a sense of accomplishment in this world that appears to offer an ounce of joy for every cup of pain. It is the push that will not let me sleep comfortably at night. It’s the whispers that only I can hear—the creak and bending sound of the floor beneath my feet while I pace from corner to corner. It’s the tingle I feel down my neck while I lay safely under the covers and the breathing force I feel hovering over my body that stiffens me and frightens me to the point that I cannot move and somehow feel my soul slip out from beneath me.

Once I open the door to my imagination, and allow the whispers to formulate a history and a plot and ultimately a story—I am forever bound to the characters until I conclude the story. And it is not one moment sooner that the whispers within my mind will cease—and I can once again sleep well at night—at least a while. I get to know them while I am drawing their story and I cannot remember all their names when I am done. Someone may quote my own words and impress me and yet I forget the words are mine. Like a seer in a prophetic trance, I lose myself, giving way to my creativity and when I come to, I am impressed not by my own abilities but by the gift I was given. For in the end the impressiveness of my work is ultimately a reflection of a God-given gift, not of myself, but the calling I was given. I am neither greater than the next person nor lower, but equal with those who have a passion for literature and stories and the creativity of the artists that create our worlds. I am simply a writer.

Writing is my gift; It is part of who I am as a person—part of my soul. It gives purpose to my existence and the journey. Coming to that reality is hard—as many writers will tell you—the uncertainty of when or how I may proclaim myself a writer—casting aside the lack of experience or the literary resume that makes you famous—was the key to understanding my purpose as a writer. Once I did and I found the courage to face the truths about my own artistic abilities and short-comings I then found the strength to face the creativity of my artificial worlds—those I create within my imagination. It is there I find the peace that accompanies the life I was born to live.

…And that is why I write.