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An Ode to Writing for the Sake of It

You have always been there to support me, but I think I have neglected you of late. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to lose my way, but pathways intersect and divert so easily that I became blinded and the destination less clear.

I say I don’t know who I am but I am a writer. Why? What is a writer? What makes this thing, this entity? What are the rules? A writer isn’t someone who writes, because in this world, everyone writes at some point. No. A writer is someone who writes not because they have to or because it’s the cool thing or because it’s a means to an end, but because it gives them life. A writer writes because it’s harder not to. A writer writes because something inside of them screams and bangs on the doors of their soul if they are ever not writing for too long.

I think my spirit has been screaming.

Now I want to dive right on in. To sink deeper into my spirit, or hold it’s hand as we traverse my inner world where my writing paints the very walls. And no, I’m not the best writer. Writers don’t need to be good at it, to feel how it decorates their soul. Instead we do the deed because the deed feels good, no?

Writing advice litters the internet. Sometimes it helps, but other times it hinders. Little matters on the offset except caring about what you are producing. Why does it matter to you? Why this story, poem, script, blog post? Why does it need to be written? And no one ever has to set eyes on it for it to matter. The mere act of creation gives birth to a spiritual energy, an entity that in and of itself matters and has meaning and exists because of you.

Imagination is a station I’ve visited many times. I get told at work that I’m silly. That I’m more of a kid than the students, simply because I told a boy to pick up a rainbow and put it in his pocket. People look down on what they can’t understand and imagination is this intangible thing that is scary because it’s unknown. It’s creation. It’s nothingness until it reveals it’s something-ness. And that’s fascinating to me.

So I may never profit from imagination and creation but that doesn’t mean I must stop doing it. This world says nay to doing for doing’s sake. There must be a rhyme or reason, and that reason best be profit! Nah. My rhyme or reason is the rhythm created from the doing. The feeling of fluidity and possibility and freedom and peace and wonderment that comes from sitting in the flow state as I write. The words or worlds may seem silly or wonky, when experienced out of time, but in the creating state, they are everything. They hold up my world. They create the foundations upon which I build and build and build until I’m breathless and I can look around and see that I’ve crafted a universe of ideas. Where I breathed life into people tackling their own reality within my stories. Where I made you, dear reader, believe for a moment that something outside of what you were told might just be true.

Am I a God in those times? Totally. Blasphemous, perhaps, but damn does it feel good.

I’m rambling but again, rambling can feel pretty darn good. Algorithms and rulebooks be damned; a stream of consciousness is frickin’ freeing and so I set myself free here, for a moment, to tell you that writing is within every part of me. I never want to lose myself again.


S. xx

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