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.