Why be a Writer?

The question we've all been asked!

I have been an avid reader since I was very little. But it was in my teens that I realized the power of a good novel in keeping a person on track. It seems to be a truth universally acknowledged in the world of prose, that as we read in depth the lives and thoughts of our most favorite characters, we form in ourselves the values and attributes we admire so much. It is a worldly person-- he who can understand a moral novel. To watch a heroine suffer the trials and tribulations of life centuries ago, in days to come, or in other universes entirely; how can one do so without learning from their mistakes?

 

That is the effect I want to create in life. In philosophy, one studies often the subject of purpose, of destiny and the meaning of life. We speak of leaving something behind when we die- as a pale answer to the quest for immortality. Every man wishes to be remembered for the good he did in his life- whether that good be raising a family, inspiring a nation, or conquering the known world, the morality of a thing is in the eyes of the inducer, and each wants only not to be forgotten. I want to be remembered for the characters I wrote-- beings immortal that shine through the dust of bookshelves to spark compassion in others' eyes.

 

Let the critics worry about style, age level and comparisons to the Great Writers. I want to be heard-- with a voice that Time cannot destroy which speaks through adventurous tales of daring does and passion. Written communication kept me afloat in that endless sea of teenage insanity, and I want to do the same for someone else.

 

This is not a delusion of grandeur. I know my limits, but I also believe that they are mutable as summer's breeze and that practice, while not really a bringer of perfection, can make professionals of us all.

 

So I will write. I will write until my pen gives out, my hand aches and my fingertips are calloused. I'll write. I'll put thought to paper and nevermind any explanation. My imagination will run away with me and my notebook will follow, scurrying as usual to keep up with the ballad of words that fall from my lips, and I'll write and write and write until my mind is empty. And the day it no longer imagines wonderful dreams that ink transmutes into worlds unknown, and my mind is silent as an empty page-- no longer able to write so much as a haiku, I will die. And count that as a very good life indeed.

Reviews

[Rain]

That is such a beautiful insight into such a good heart. I believe in you. I will treasure your memory. You have a unique style that is your alone. Dream big. Rain..