Writers write for different reasons.
We are inspired, initially, of course. The first idea, the seed of a story must begin somewhere. But in the course of things, we do not write because of it. It is the first point of the journey.
We write out of desperation. A deadline looms, and it drives us to meet it. A story burns in our minds, and drives us to write it. The world begins to hurt too much, and it drives us to hide from it.
I feel it today more than ever. An incident occurs, and it just… taints me, and I am driven away to hide behind my keyboard.
And there are still too many distractions! I need silence and loneliness. Or, I should say, I want silence and loneliness, but I’m hoping that a large dose of music to block out everything around me will make a good substitute.
I’m still struggling with elements of the Novel, but even the worst of the time I spend writing is good for the soul. It’s another small step towards my holding a copy of the finished book, whole and pure, that I can hand to another person and say, “I wrote this. It’s one of my stories.”
Oh, to live the writer’s dream, and make stories my living as well as my passion.