Prompt:  Why do I write?

(Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg)

Date: 18 October 2011

Location:  26B

I write because I know it is going to take a lifetime of writing to explain the answer.  I write because there are novels with my name on them; maybe even a poem that comes from my own mind yet still makes me blush.  There are blog posts, too, which are part of the process where I become comfortable with my voice.  My voice is why I write, because it is how I tell my story, and I still need to find it.  A writer’s voice is in his words, and how can I find my voice unless I ink these words? But will I find the words?  The only way to find out is to write, and that has to be the reason why I do it.

My story is in books, letters, blogs, and e-mails.  It is within the thousand words that my craft sleeps.  My story is about catching up with words to the crazy thing that happened to me yesterday.  It’s my voice and I write because I am trying to find it.  I have been lead down a path with forks, spoons, knives, and sporks. The path leads to my voice, to the reason why I write.  That reason is something elusive, but we know it is there.  All of us do, now it is only my subconscious that needs to be convinced.  It’s a Stanley cup in L.A., but it is mine.  It is the way I show you how I live, breath, and want to feel.

I write because sometimes I just have to; it is like an itch that must be scratched.  The light of my computer screen against my chilled face at three in the morning is the only Benadryl my excited mind needs or wants. It is contagious.  Words beget words and I write to find a place for them, otherwise I may just go insane.  Or talk too much, and nobody would want that.  So I write.

I write because it is fun, too.  I enjoy it, and the music I listen to without hearing the words.  I write because it is challenging.  A novel is novel until you have done it and then it is just a novel.  I like that, and I want that, and that is why I write on planes and trains when I should be asleep.  That is why I scan my old notes and look at people in different ways.  An old man isn’t in my way on my way through the turnstiles to the tube, he is trying to tell me something.  He is trying to tell me, hey you with the v-neck shirt on, part of me contains your voice and can explain exactly why you write. I’d jump over the turnstile and look back at the man, and he’d be gone but there would be an orphan with a cup begging for change, and on his cup it would read, “this is why you write.”