Another writer might say it was the sun, or the stars, or the satisfaction of seeing their words in print, or maybe the knowledge that one sentence might immortalize them. Me? I'm not sure.
I received my first diary when I was eight. It had one page per day, and a little lock kept it safe from prying eyes. And if I remember correcting, it was blue. Or maybe red?
I wrote in it everyday. Nothing mind-boggling, or inspiring, just my thoughts for the day. What I did or wanted to do. Stuff about as interesting as any eight year old could come up with.
I wrote in my diary right up until I was in my teens. Soon the diary became a journal, and I continue entering my thoughts well into my twenties. I kept writing because it felt right. Today I still write in my journal, but mostly I write fiction. I wrote my first short story in 1973.
|Robin, Dad & Joylene|
In 1983 my father passed away; he was fifty-six. To survive the grief I decided I'd immortalize (there's that word again) him through words. I'd write a novel about him, me, and our relationship. Seven years later, I finished. It was terrible! But, man, was I hooked on the process.
I'm not a deep thinker, but even I realized quickly that writing fills a void. Never am I more alive, more tuned to nature, or my own psyche than when I'm writing. A whole world opens up and swallows me. My senses heighten, my vision clears, and everything around me disappears.
Writing is who I am. Take writing away and I feel half-alive. Half-whole. I need to create on paper. It's no longer a choice. My ego, whether it be fragile or rock solid must be heard. Dreams come true on paper. Fears are dealt with. No obstacle is too big that I can't forever forge a more embraceable ending.
What inspires me to write? I guess living does. Breathing.
How about you?