I had a rather mundane and uneventful weekend. Friday night I relaxed with a movie. Saturday I spent working on my house for the most part. Today, I spent working on my house and cooking for the most part.
The one real break in the weekend was when I got to meet a fellow blogger for coffee Saturday afternoon. I will not tell you who it was that I met, because you would only be insanely jealous. We had a great conversation, and she asked me a question that I don't really know if I have ever fully answered yet: Why do I write?
(Yes it was a she. No I did not hit on her. Snap out of it)
So, why do I write?
I don't write for you. I write for me. I write because it is my therapy. I write because when I started this, there was nothing out there in existence that spoke to me as a young man going through utter emotional hell.
Diary, I created you because you did not exist, but I created you for me.
I write because words are my way of escaping. I don't do it for fame, and I sure as fuck don't do it for money (well, that is, unless any literary agents or publishers want to give me a book deal based on everything I have written to date, then I will happily cash their fat ass checks). I don't do it to meet people, and I don't do it to score points with anyone.
I write because I want to, not because I have to, or because I in some way need to feel validated or vindicated.
My story is my story, and it belongs to no one else (well, unless aforementioned literary agent or publishers comes a knocking, then you can buy me in paperback).
I don't write to read your comments. I don't write to solicit an opinion, although all are valued.
I write because it is cleansing. I write because I love words. I write because I do not know how to talk.
I write because it is how I bring art, creativity, and beauty into my life. I guess you could call it my artistic talent, well, that and cooking.