I write because I love the glistening of the black marks on the page announcing my pen’s freshly laid words. I love the lines and contours that somehow convey meaning—different, certainly, from a drawing but still a kind of art. I love remembering and discovering as one thought begets the next. I love making a mark; putting my stamp on the world. I share and refine and discover ideas. I build worlds from thoughts and form portals through stories. I convert the impossibility of consciousness into something concrete. I declare that I am human.
My writing is something I can labor over, hate, tear up, cross out, rewrite highlight, save, copy, share, save, and cherish. I can hate my handwriting but love the ideas it records. I can express love and anger and sadness and joy and hope. I can lay dreams on soft beds of trees turned into paper.
At worst my writing moves only myself, and at best it moves someone else.
I write because I must. I will not lock my words away in forgotten rooms in my mind when they beg to be let out into the light. Every cell of mine works together to put ink onto a page. My entire being demands it, and who am I to refuse? I will not. Not any more.
I hope you will write, too. For yourself, for others, if for no other reason than to scream onto a page <3
love this 😭😭 I hope you keep writing :')