I’ve written about how I just get ideas, some of which eventually disappear, while others stay. And insist. And persist. They eventually become plots, settings, characters, and details, later becoming a proper story.
These ideas end up creating a kind of physical need to have them fleshed out. They nag at me, stress me, distract me, until I sit down with a pen and notebook and let them go. I feel myself relax, lose tension in my body and mind, give up space inside me as the words are freed. Does it sound ridiculous? I promise I’m not high, I just can’t think of another way to explain it.
So, in a nutshell, it becomes a physical need. And a mental one.
Sometimes I refer to my writing as a hobby because I have a full-time job and that’s technically what it is, I guess. Other times, I think of it as a passion, even though there may be an expectation of more movement—and I’m just sitting there.
Writing can also be a great distraction from the shit-show that the world can be. And yes, there are plenty more ways to be distracted, but like reading, writing is more immersive and requires a bit more from you. (I’m not saying we should actively ignore what’s going on, I’m just saying that self-care can include a mindful pause from the news.)
But going back to it, I love to write. I love the physical act of letting a pen slide over paper and seeing my disastrous writing appear (seriously, I should take a calligraphy course). I love underlining words or phrases to check when I’m doing edits. I love having plot summaries and notes and scribbles that are added down the line. I love the editing process, even if I find cringe dialogues and embarrassing typos. I love putting everything together and sorting out fonts, sizes, styles, alignments, and the like. I love seeing my printed books and published posts.
So, why do I write? Because it makes me happy.
It’s not always easy; it’s far from perfect (whatever that might mean to you). But I do it because I know I need it to, in a silly way, be free.
It’s mine and I do it for me and not everything I write gets published and drafts change and it’s still so fulfilling.
Even if I can’t do it as often as I’d like to or for as long as I’d like to. Even if I’m sometimes annoyed by a chapter I need to get through. Even if after I finish writing 50,000 words I then need to type them up.
It’s all part of the process, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
