This week Chuck really pulled the rug.
It’s the first Terribleminds Flash Fiction: Non-Fiction Challenge (That I’m aware of)
The task is to write a blog post. The Topic: Why I Write.
Why I Write
I’m not like most writers. I never knew from a young age what I wanted to be. I went through a string of things: vet, race car driver, marine biologist. But I wasn’t bookish; I didn’t spend my early years suckling stories from the bosom of the local library. Books were present; my Mum always read, and my Granddad was halfway through a different book every time I visited. I’ve always had an active imagination, but the stories I did digest avidly were in the form of television and movies. My toys were how I crafted my stories, and how I played out the vivid images my brain relayed to me.
My adolescence took me farther from epiphany; I was convinced I would work with computers, and with that settled I rested on my laurels. In my mind I was already programming computers, working on state of the art video games, and building multi-million pound online businesses. School was just a hurdle I had to jump in order to reach my goal, but I never jumped; I simply crept underneath. Video games were the new narrative in my life; I lapped them up while the toys gathered dust.
An ankle injury kept me inside. To stave the boredom I read old books I found lying around. Hours of my life devoured, but never wasted, by the magnolia pages. When they were done, I rummaged through the contents of my Mum’s books, in search of the next fix. I continued to read while the Playstation gathered dust.
Ankle healed. I left the books inside and headed back out into the world. My affair was over. We wouldn’t meet again for some time.
As the delusion of a teenager goes; I was the unstoppable force, on a collision with greatness, or whatever I hit first. I didn’t know how, I didn’t much care either. But then I met the immovable object. She would be the still cool water that quenched the irrational and undirected fire of my youth. We spent a summer in Cyprus; Sun, Sand, Sea, and an old love I had secretly harboured: we both raced to finish Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince. She won; so did I.
Fast forward: June 2nd 2006. I’m pacing the speckled blue linoleum of the hospital floor. I’m about to take the biggest step of my not so long lived life. At 12:25 I welcomed my son into the world. At 12:28 I welcomed my daughter. In the space of a few minutes, my entire world had changed.
From that day, I would begin to find out who I was, what I was capable of. I knew I had to help my children go right, where I had gone so wrong. I owed it to them, to my better half, and to myself to be everything I could. From reading them bedtime stories, and picking up books again, reading for my own pleasure, I had a revelation: all my life, in one form or another; creating, imagining, and experiencing stories was a continuing point of joy; a focal point, the epicentre of my happiness. A faint whisper echoed inside my mind. Could I do this? Could I write? I decided to see if my capability could match my desire. It didn’t, I was terrible, but I loved it all the same. My desire far outweighed my capability, still does to this day, but it’s what keeps me going; striving to put on page what my brain makes so flawless and effortless. I doubt I’ll ever reach the dizzy heights of my desire, but I believe that’s the point. Through writing I’ve discovered things. Things I never would have discovered had I not wrestled my mind for the thoughts it contains, for the small pieces of my soul that the words reveal. There are things I understand, but only writing exposes them. There’s knowledge within me, but only writing brings it to the surface. It has been the making of me. To write, for me, is to feel alive; to feel connected with something larger than myself.
Why do I write? Because if I didn’t, I would simply exist.
Why do I write? Because without writing my heart would beat simply for necessity
Why do I write? Because I have no choice. I’m a writer.