Why I write…
[cincopa 10656401]
Sensitive strokes, brushed with pen, create a story. Words, not paint, color the pages and launch new adventures. Why do I write?
The writer’s brush takes the reader on a carpet ride. The personal world of the writer is exposed. His ideas, thoughts, imagination; all are translated, using ink, a mouse or a key pad.
Words come together and link. This link forms the umbilical cord that connects these two strangers closely; the writer and the page, the giver, and the receiver. A cherished bond, a partnership, that is nurtured, tested, sometimes recycled, and always changing.
It’s the delivery of words, the birth of a book, a link created using the writer’s special brush. It is the sensitive, detailed stroke that breathes life onto paper. This life will create story, a work of art that will be loved or ridiculed. The painter cannot predict how his art will be received, but his desire to paint is the intense force that drives him.
He paints for himself, not for others. The possibility of rejection will not interfere with his creativity, his energy, the juices that flow, his words that spill over from his morning cup of coffee onto canvas. Sticking to canvas, these words feed the writer’s soul.
The God given gift, his talent, weighs heavily and should not be wasted but revered. The opinions of others do not really matter. No one can kill his passion for writing. It is too strong.
The paper or canvas becomes the author’s tool, the main platform used to scribble on, crumple up, or toss into a barrel. The barrel that waits, under the writer’s desk, receives all the rejections; the ideas tagged, “not good enough”.
The canvas, repeatedly scrutinized by the painter, decides not to be overly sensitive or cast judgment. He is loyal, a true friend, who waits patiently for his partner’s acceptance, knowing one day he will be appreciated for his uniqueness, tone, and voice.
After days, months, years of work, the artist will recognize the value of his art. It is never published, but buried under manuscripts tagged “not good enough,” located in the writer’s top desk drawer. It becomes a forgotten treasure.
The painter’s hard work, dedication, and diligence will one day pay off. The love nurtured between the two strangers will slowly uncover a mystery, the hidden beauty of word.
Unbroken pages, painted images, telling a story speckled with words, not oil paint. This union will evolve into a finished story that creates light. It will shine brightly and decorate the writer’s canvas. All the while, he will fervently pray, that his light connects readers, new links. These links are the boats guided by the bright lighthouse. They are book lovers searching and looking for rest at the next harbor.
This brilliant light yearns to be discovered. He dreams, he hopes, he wishes for the day, when book lovers search for him, because his light is original. He has faith that his readers, his loyal friends, his fleet will sail in, finding that what he has to offer is too good to put down. They will keep coming back, loving the warmth that comes from his light.
As he prays for new connections, new links, he understands his new place in the world. Now, he is no longer the receiver, but the giver. His readers, his fleet will receive.
With this realization the writer pauses. The umbilical cord has been cut. This predictable separation was inevitable. It was their destiny, after all.
They have no choice but to leave the ballroom and put away their dancing shoes. Their intimate, fast moving tango has come to an end.
Sweet memories, both frustrating and exhilarating, shared between best friends, will always bring a smile to the painter of words. But it will not keep the painter’s creativity burning. The painter is already making plans to find wood for building a new fire. The writer is a fickle friend. He will not stay.
He is too restless. His thirst is unquenchable. Tapping keys, moving a mouse, or jotting words onto paper, the process of creating the tapestry, the canvas that shares his message, the story, the book, his creation brings him pure joy. This joy can only be understood by other painters, other artists, other lovers of words.
I write for the pure joy it brings me.
Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 
