The question was posed. Sort of a laying down of the gauntlet because surely this was a difficult thing.
To write, that is.
When life is happening all around, and moving at the speed of light. Babies and degrees, jobs and family, issues that form into devastation, financial responsibilities resulting in an endless trail of tears. Or beers. Or bills.
How can writing be a priority?
Isn’t it a time waster? There has to be more pertinent responsibilities at hand? Will there be sales, publishing, and fame involved? Torturing language to awaken the muse only seems silly when the end game is unclear, and life is marching onward.
So again, why write?
Write because it is life.
It is the breath that exhales celestial energy into creativity.
The honor presented to an adored and revered, blind, invalid grandmother who whispered stories each night to two little girls whining for one more tale of Creepies that went thump in the night. The calling of voices that need to be heard. The homage to times and places long gone. The love of a culture and a heritage, echoing the footprints of community with drums, rhythm, dance, and etymology. Moonlight play.
Writing is authenticity.
The love of language, and words, and stories, and books has long been a guide. The cadence clicked upon the tongue, the alliteration, the emotion, the subtly of fear.
Who will like it?
What if its crap? ‘Birdman’ yells constantly to maintain the status quo. A writer vacillates between utter despair and mountaintop jubilation. All that a writer wants to be, needs to be, revealed at the core of the writing, produces grave unrest.
A writer wants to be profound.
A writer wants to be clear. A writer wants to be funny. A writer desires to be deep, and dark, and all things great and small until the writer yields to purpose. Thank goodness for Pride. It may come before a fall, but it also protects the spirit, and champions one to write on.
Because there is a story to be told.
A history to be remembered.
A poem to be versed.
A lyric to sing.
A child that needs an escape, an adventure, and to discover
They. Are. Not. Alone.
But who will read it?
Perhaps a one, or 100 or a million or seven billion. Who cares? When the creative muse is sitting across the table, screaming for attention.