As I set my timer to begin I think … “I don’t know. I don’t know why I write. I just write.” And then slowly, through the words, something emerges.
I write because I am inspired by what I see. Traversing through the changing seasons of the Australian bush, or the public market or just passing some street graffiti I am called in a way, or compelled in a way, or overwhelmed in a way that I must capture their words.
I write to feel the thrill and excitement and possibility: as I lose all sense of no, stopping and sitting and forgetting everything but the writing.
I write because I love the feel of a fountain pen in my hand. The pen strokes the page, the bottle changes the ink, the screwed-off cap spills the floor, the nib cleans itself on the inside of my recycled cloth handbag and the beautiful paper captures flowing words into a lovely bound journal.
And then the drawing out, the extraction. I write because I love this process even more. The raw material, read and perused and the something, the something used and placed on the screen. My hands melding the black keys with words, clattering along in loving familiarity mingling new thoughts with the something the pen wrote earlier.
I write because I love the look of those words on a page: the construction and the re-arrangement set only for the eye. I love the look of those words in a blog post; wrapped into a lovely image, or some artistic sort of photo that I have hunted for on the backroads.
Then I write for you dear reader, the someone out there (even when I think there is no one, I write).
And so I keep building it everyday. I have stuck to my writing (one of the few things ever). I really have stuck to my writing (and boy do I write). I think i know now why I write. I write because I love it. And somehow I always knew I would.
© 2016 Melinda Irvine
Everyday Inspiration: Day 1 (I write because)