Why do I write? My first response to that question was, it’s simple. Then I realised that actually, it’s not that simple at all. There’s no singular answer. No catch-all response that covers the millions of feelings that writing evokes in me.
For starters, writing allows me to create my own world. It doesn’t matter if I’m writing about a couple have kinky sex or whether I’m talking about a man stolen from his life to sit in a field with a surfboard and a spacesuit. I create my own patch of reality, my own personal space. Until I deign to share it, it’s always mine. Writing is a portal to other worlds.
And what a thrill sharing it is. To imagine the world that people create in their heads from my writing. Letting them escape, to immerse themselves, to allow my writing to wash over them. Writing is the bath in which the mind cleanses itself from the shadows of the day.
There is no feeling like writing. Nothing can streamline the thoughts like writing, the simple act of putting words onto a page. To concentrate, to sharpen. The words follow and follow, cascading from your mind in an endless rush. An avalanche, swallowing the innocent snowboarders of worry and anxiety and carrying them away. Adding to the snowball of words, thundering sentences that pass through your fingertips, down the pen, through the keyboard, however you choose to write and then you find, before you, the finished piece.
That is what writing feels like. An addict, craving his fix. A hunter chasing his prey, doing it all for the thrill.
That is why I write.
The Idiot in Tin Foil