Why do I want to write? That question seems unanswerable. It’s kind of like asking someone, “Why do you want to eat?”” Both answers would be, “Because I must.”
When I was nine years old, I wrote my first long story, and writing has been a need ever since.
There are many stories in my life. Many joys, sorrows, tragedies, and even ethereal experiences. Much of what I have written was borne from a need to self-heal. Writing is cathartic. All of what I have written is close to my heart – personal. I’m afraid to set these writings free. I fear to let them ‘have their own life’; to be savored or devoured by others.
After joining several writer’s groups, a feeling of dismay has filled within me. I see so many hopefuls, working away on the next bestseller in their genre. Self-publishing a novel for the simple reason of calling oneself a novelist, writer, author, seems to be a common goal.
I want more than that. My main focus, in my writing, is to share a true, intimate story for the purpose of helping another person – I write about the human condition. Is that theme lost?
Despair is a narcotic. It lulls the mind into indifference.
– Charlie Chaplin