There are times when I’m staring at my manuscript that I wonder why I ever wanted to write a story, wonder why I continue to write and rewrite, wonder what the point of all this is.
Nights spent pouring over a single word/sentence/paragraph. Days with my story plotting around in my head. Headaches, frustration, sleepless nights, scatterbrained days.
Why? Why? Why?
Why do I want to write?
And the answer is so annoyingly but wonderfully obvious: there is no greater connection to my heart and soul than the words that pour out during those magical moments—those moments where the perfect word is discovered; when a string of sentences flow one into the next it’s barely like reading a story; how a fictional character comes to life and stirs within me an emotion that is deep, raw, and honest.
Writing isn’t a choice, despite my attempt to rationalize why I endure the bleak side of this art form (lol). Writing is very much a part of who I am at the core, and to not express that is a disservice I would do to myself. For why live a life that you do not reveal your true self or do not achieve the greatest potential that you can?
So I will leave you with Dylan Thomas’ poem:
Do not go gentle into that good night…Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Rage on, fellow writers, rage on.