Why do I write? This is a question that at some point in time, each writer has asked themselves. It is either when they are staring at a blank page, unable to come up with one single good idea to develop, when they have run out of good ideas about three quarters of the way through their work or when the work is finished and it is not all that they hoped it would be.
I have often asked myself this question. Late at night, staring at the computer, wondering to myself, "Why did I even start this?" Fortunately, I am usually able to come up with an answer.
My writing is like my children. The stories grow, change, and develop. Nine times out of ten, the end result is not at all what you pictured in your mind when you began writing the piece, and yet, somehow, it is just as beautiful and meaningful as the ending you originally intended.
I write organically. This means that I do not set up an outline for any of my works, I do not plot out how many pages the next chapter is going to be, what characters are going to be introduced or key points to the plot line that I want to address. I let the story come naturally, and develop at it's own pace. This is not to say that I do not go back and do maintenance, much like teaching a child a lesson that they needed to learn to move forward in life. The thoughts and characters flow onto the page, and I am content to let it come to me.
I have noticed that when I do not write, I become anxious, irratable and an all around grouch. I have this creative spirit inside of me that is bursting with good ideas. As a child, I was a bookworm, and continue to this day. In point of fact, my husband has threatened to buy me an e-book just so he does not have to build more shelves to house my prizes.
I love a new book. The adventure that is promised between those two covers, the smell of the paper and fresh ink. The spine begging to be cracked while read with one hand so that coffee can be sipped with the other. So many times have I rushed home after buying a new book, anxious to open to the first page and drink in the new ideas, thoughts and dreams of another so like myself.
Some of my happiest memories of my childhood was going to this old bookstore in the center of town with my mother. It was a book exchange, bring in the old ones and walk out with used ones at no cost. I loved it. That room was filled with the scent of old musty paper, ancient leather bindings, and coffee. Always coffee.
Perhaps that is why I write. I want to give someone else those lazy summer days in the backyard under the best climbing tree ever, with a bunch of apples and a good book.
