I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write. I’ve scribbled bad poetry and silly ideas since I was a little girl. My favourite thing was to wander through the book stores running my hand along the spines of the paperbacks. I have shelves and shelves of journals and blank books waiting for me to write in them. I choose them for their beautiful covers, the soft untarnished paper, the steady lines waiting for me to pour my head onto the pages.
Although it gives me great pleasure to see a story completed, sometimes just the act of drafting ideas and thoughts calms me. Every day I feel like there are a million things unsaid in me and that I’ll burst if I don’t at least try to express them on paper. I guess the answer is that I write because I need to, because even if there was no novel, no short fiction, no verse, there is still life and pondering and there is a story in that every day.
Why do you write?
Writing Prompt: The why behind the words