“For those whose blood mingles with ink upon the pages which reflect every beautiful dream and twisted vision that moves them to create.”

I may never be a great author or win critical acclaim. The idea of success repulses me more than it motivates. The simple joy of creation moves my pen and turns strokes to letters to words to sentences to stories.

I write because I’m afraid that if I don’t say it, no one will.

I write because I have a journal full of ideas and when I scratch one off, three more take its place. I write with a sense of urgency.

Lock me in a prison cell, but leave me something to write with. I’ll create beautiful worlds into which I’ll make my escape. Writing is freedom.

I write because I’ve always wanted to
I write because not writing is oppressive
I write because I have something to say
I write to inspire
I write to silence my mind
I write because words are beautiful
I write because reading isn’t enough

My head is filled with stories and I drop what I’m doing to rush home. I frantically pound at the keyboard frustrated at its inability to express the subtle nuances and undertones of my every thought. I write recklessly.

If I didn’t write, I’d choke on the poison that is unexpressed emotion. Writing is the cathartic release that keeps me from drowning in the unfathomable depths of my subconscious. Writing is my flotation device.

Writing is what keeps me connected to humanity.

I write because I have to.

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