What Makes Me Write?

 

What makes me want to write?

I’m creative. It’s what I do. When I’m not writing (like at the moment), I make art. I’m trying to sell my art but not having much luck since everybody’s tending to hang onto their cash in the lead-up to US elections and the (bleurgh) “holiday” season.

I started writing when I was ten. I finished my first novel when I was eleven, and had a dozen novels completed by the time I was eighteen. My parents, being the generous, intelligent and far-sighted angels they were (*cough*) threw them all away and told me to go and find a proper career. Later, subsequent writings were lost after water damage in a house flood, but I didn’t give up. Hard drives dying and taking works with them didn’t make me give up. I just kept writing. I wrote poetry, novels, short stories, movie scripts, you name it.

I wrote to let it out, I wrote to vent, I wrote for therapy, I wrote to invent friends I wanted for my lonely self, I wrote to tell stories. In uni I wrote for money to buy food and pay rent while I studied.

These days I write because I need to write. At least, I’d be writing if my meds let me. Since I can’t seem to string two words of a work of fiction together at the moment, I’m drawing and calligraphing and painting and selling my writing and my art, spending an inordinate amount of time on social media hustling away as best as I can.

Maybe I’ll earn something, maybe I won’t, but I’m a bit of an autotelic creator, so for the most part it’s not really worrying me. When the meds let me, I’ll just keep on writing.

 

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