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.