Authors on writing


The last day of February, also the last day of February fiction month! Phew, time is flying by. It’s almost hard to keep up with everything 😉 Of course the fiction travel posts won’t end after today, but I’ll mix it up more again with other travel posts (London will come up soon as I just got back yesterday!). But before it’s March I wanted to share one more blog with you. As some of you might know by now, I love reading but writing as well. I’m not pursuing a big career as a writer but that doesn’t stop me from writing fiction either way. I’m part of a great international group of young writers and I love hearing about why they love to write so much. I thought it would be great to share some of those stories here on the blog today! Are any of my blog visitors vivid writers too?

Condensing my love of writing into one paragraph is a difficult task. I adore writing in its entirety in so many ways. I love creating new worlds, people, and creatures. It’s fascinating being a proverbial god of fictional worlds and helps me relate to the true Creator. I love pouring my experiences, my joys, and my pains into writing. I’ve found it a release and therapeutic, especially when going through troubling times. Finally, I love the writing community. Nearly everyone I’ve met is fascinating, imaginative, empathetic, and kind. I couldn’t dream of wanting to be anyone other than being a writer.

Writers die but their words never do.

That’s a few words I stringed together myself, because I’m obsessed with legacies. I know, I think it’s a given for all of us, that eventually we’re going to die, and I want to be remembered even by a few people long after I’m gone.

But here’s my problem: I don’t believe I have any other talent. I can’t play an instrument excellently. I can’t edit photos on PhotoShop or create videos. Don’t you dare ask me to play with you any sport, I’m beyond saving in the sports category.

So what do I do, how do I leave a piece of myself? I choose to write.

Sure, I’m far from ever getting published. I’m still finishing a couple first drafts I have in hand. It may be a year or two before I sell my social life to editing and rewriting. But that’s not why I write. I write because I love it.

I love the idea of creating stories. I love daydreaming plot lines, creating characters from scratch, staying up late to piece sentences together. I love the fact that through the stories I come up, I get lost. I get so lost in my own world I pretend I’m actually living out the story, instead of being stuck where I am now. I write because it’s a way to release all these monsters whispering in the back of my head. I write because I love creating, making, believing, being, writing. I can go on and on, but I’ll spare you.

I write because I want to leave a legacy, and I write because I love it more than any other thing in the world.

I fell in love with writing because I could exorcise my demons while maybe creating angels for others. That, and my brain would explode if I kept all the stories inside.

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