I’ve asked myself  often, why write?  Why this overwhelming need to put pen to paper or tap away at the keyboard of the computer and come up with words strung together in what we might hope to be a coherent and melodious rhythm?  Why the constant struggle with the ebb and flow of words and the dreaded writer‘s block?  And I suppose that the answer is, instead of all the numerous justifications and reasons which can be used: because I cannot not write.

I have read somewhere that one is either a writer or isn’t – and writers are a different breed altogether – the compulsion and the need to churn words out in what we hope to be intelligible format is part and parcel of who we are… whether it is published or not is irrelevant.  While the notion of being published is probably many writers’ Holy Grail, it is still beside the point… we just need to write, we cannot live without constructing sentences and expressing ourselves in such a manner, even if it is only for ourselves to read… even if it is only for ourselves to make sense of our inner and outer worlds.

A writer is both a participant and an observer in life and it is this dichotomous friction which when in harmony produces the flame of  writing which illuminates. On the other hand, when the role of participant and observer are at odds which each other, which is more often than not the case, it produces the tortured frustration which can only be alleviated by putting pen to paper so to speak and letting the words spill out.  And the cycle then repeats itself.  It cannot be helped.  And this is why I write.

(c) Niconica 2011*

*does not apply to image/s

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