Sometimes I seriously wonder why God put the desire to write inside my heart. Some days, like today, I question the logic of what I’m trying to accomplish with writing.
Is it a test, to see if I can be dedicated to an end product?
Is it supposed to get me motivated to live a better life? Be a better person? Practice better faith?
Should I be feeling frustrated, incompetent, and inadequate? Are these emotions necessary for me to experience in order to get to the finish line, literally, and write the end?
Or is it all about the journey, the roadmap, the ups and downs that will eventually get me there?
Whatever the reason I have the desire to write ingrained in my soul, there are days like today, when the words won’t come, the dialogue is cliched, and the syntax is unrecognizable as English, that I question WHY.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Why am I making myself crazy and heart-sick?
Why am I wasting my time chasing a dream to commercial success that appears all but delusional from my perspective?
Just at that moment I’m ready to chuck my laptop out the window I remember the real reason I write. It’s not for commercial success. It’s not because I like seeing my name emblazoned across a book jacket ( although that is nice!). It’s not because I’m so conceited I want to jump up and scream “Look at me! I can write” just for the attention.
No. I write because all these stories swimming around in my head are begging to be set free. I write because I love to. I simply, uncategorically, love to. There is nothing else in the world that gives me such joy and pleasure as penning a perfect line of dialogue or a description that gets heads nodding in recognition when they read it.
So. Please excuse my subtle rant. I’m off to write now.