In Day Four of my Seven Day Blogging Blitz, I talk about the very reason I made this blog: my passion for writing.
Today, I write. I write for me and no one else. I write because this is the only thing that I know how to do well, really well. I write because I love the language. I love the feel of a pen wedged in between my fingers. I love the gliding of my palm against a stark white piece of paper as the words flow from me. I love writing in cursive, even though my handwriting is atrocious. I love the feel of my fingertips pushing against the keys on my keyboard and the slight resistance the keys give back to me. I love to write.
I love creating. I love expressing myself through words. I love turning the incomplete thoughts in my brain into sentences. I love when words come to life on a page. I love it when everything comes together, each word working as a cohesive unit to share what was in my head. I love it when someone else understands.
I love telling stories. I love interesting worlds and compelling characters. I love their interactions, their dialogue. I love monologues, soliloquies, and asides. I love a character’s growth as the story billows on. I love how a story progresses, and I love the way the characters handle it. I love conclusions. I love the satisfaction of an ending, and I love the anticipation of a continuation.
But, I hate. I hate the thoughts that won’t come out. I hate that they are there, sitting in my head, wanting, begging to be released but finding none to come. I hate the words that are forced, unappealing drivel. I hate staring at a blank screen for hours. I hate the crumbled up pieces of paper that fill my tiny, office trash can. I hate being blocked.
I hate how others make it look so easy. I hate reading words and free flowing ideas that contain a mastery of this language that make me think of my own inadequacies. I hate being inferior.
I hate their success. I hate how they are celebrated for their words, their substandard work that I know I could produce with both of my eyes closed. I hate how their work is touted as being the very pinnacle of this profession. I hate their simplicity. I hate that their simplicity is loved.
I hate this world, in how it treats what I hold dear. I hate that my love for the written word is a dying art. I hate that as we are propelled further and further into the digital age, words become less important. I hate that we now express ourselves through emojis. I hate that it doesn’t feel like it will stop.
Despite all the hills and valleys, this perverse need to create is still within me. No matter how long I abstain from it or how far I fall into the rabbit hole, the fire in my soul will never be quenched. Life can hurl every obstacle and kill every muse, but I will continue with my noble cause. I will love, hate, and feel every other intricate emotion in between them. I will create world upon world, as many characters as the stars and enough stories to populate them all. I will. I will write.