Why do I write?

As a writer who has weaved in and out of real writing, this is a question I have had to ask myself.

Why do I write?  And the answer that always comes back to me, has nothing to do with actual writing.  It has to do with living.  I write because when I write some part of me feels wildly free, deeply happy, and good.  The world feels right.  I feel right.

It’s the same feeling I get from running wild on the beach, wind and sand in my hair, salt on my skin, the waves curving to me as I swim and flip, imagining I’m a seal or a dolphin.

It’s the same feeling I have when I’m climbing a hollow tree, deep in the rainforest, wild bees buzzing in the neighbouring branches, birds flying over the canopy, the world distant and immediate, all in the same eye.  Where had I wings, I could fly.

It’s the way I feel when I’m driving somewhere a long way; bare foot, the windows down, my dog in the back and a good companion to keep me company.  It’s like the feeling I get when I’m laughing all the way down to my guts, when I love my husband, or when I’m laying in the grass, looking up, breathing in the sky.

I write because when I’m writing, I know that I’m alive.  I can’t find any reason better than that.

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About talesbytink

I've lived various lives in various places but have been a writer at heart the whole time. The experiences of being other things in other lands and times can only make my writing richer. I have no regrets about the road travelled. There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.
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