Why do I write?
I have come back to this question many times and at
different points in my life.
As a young child I wrote because I enjoyed stories and, for
whatever reason, not everything that was read or told to me was satisfactory. I
also wrote because my Dad was a great storyteller and would tell me how much he
loved writing. That nugget would later guide the purpose behind my writing for
many years.
As a teen I wrote because I needed an outlet. My Dad was constantly sick, having suffered a series of heart attacks and eventually going on peritoneal dialysis to deal with his declining body. I lost him when he was 64 and I was 18. Poetry and short fiction became a means of expressing my sadness, anger, despair and increasing cynicism.
As a young adult I wrote to express the aforementioned
feelings combined with an increasing sense of loneliness and lack of direction.
After I graduated college with my BA in
Business, I sat down to write my debut novel, Human Resources. Admittedly,
I wasn’t writing for quality and my goal in self-publishing the product of my
labor was simply the satisfaction to have seen something through to completion.
Now I am in my 30’s and I don’t write as much as I’d like
to. Having a wife, three children and a full time job keeps me pretty busy.
But I listen to a lot of audiobooks during the 80 miles I drive every workday.
I hear the music in the words of other writers and each time I listen I feel
that my eye (or ear) for good writing has improved.
The things I write these days take time. They take
consideration because I don’t want to just let anything out into the world. Ten
years from now I’ll look back at this short post and shake my head at the lack
of style and consideration. But I am glad I am still writing.
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