I was thinking the other day about why I spend my waking moments writing. My non-waking moments too, stories often drifting into my dreamscape.
I sure don’t do it for the money, having made little what with artwork, website fees, promotion etc. Although of course that’s part of the dream – to do it for a living, to ‘buy’ the time to do it.
Then there’s the ultimate aspiration, to have an organic-style den in the garden; rounded walls made of reddish clay, a thatch roof, a place where I can hide from the world and write, write, write.
But hobbit hideouts and the luxury of time aside, I write because it’s what I do. It distracts me from the everyday, from the Human Condition. Because I have to, the words written in my mind already, if I didn’t get them down I’d go insane, explode, a bomb of the unwritten.
I write for my little girl, although not in certain terms, she’s only three years old. But nevertheless I do, I write for her.
Because I love it.
I know I’m not alone, my book buddy Bard once compared himself to a pinata, set to shower words everywhere. Please share the reasons you write, or do what you do …