Why Write
I write because I have a hidden voice that demands I do it.
Having discovered writing, I cannot now undiscover it, as the words of every great story I ever read tumble about in my head and are regurgitated as fresh prose, or the words readers use to respond and critique are so avidly sought after as payment for these late nights.
This Pandora's box can only be forced shut if my efforts to sing go unheard, how cruel a stab would that be? To strive to connect through every sweated word, and find an empty page forever ignored.
No, I cannot let that happen.
Yet how many talented authors cry into the night for want of a reader?
I must be my own biggest fan and push to be published, and then fall back to await a response even if it be a solitary word.
It is a solitary and cruel task I have undertaken, and the path is littered with torn pages, stained coffee cups and eyes red from the strain of supporting furrowed brow. But what a delicious path it is.
What a delicious path it is.