Must I write? This question haunted me, drove me to mutter in dark corners and scream angry nothings from the rooftops. For what is this burning desire inside if not a “must”, something without which I cannot exist?
But, one day, I stopped. I asked, what would be the consequences if I were unable to write? For to say, “I must,” requires some sort of qualifying statement.
I must write or –
I will die.
No, that’s not true, not even close to the truth. Blatant exaggeration, to be honest.
I will live in torment!
No, torment is a word reserved for the circles of Dante’s Inferno, true torture at its finest.
I will – be unhappy?
Perhaps. But does this world really become a happy place when I write? The answer to that question is something rather unpleasant.
In my experience, constant happiness is less believable then speculative fiction, and writing, despite the passion I have for it, does not change this fact. So if I am looking for happiness I am in the wrong place.
Why then do I write?
To scatter the bones of reality on a page. To tell it how I see it. To paint a lie in such a fashion that the truth drags itself from the ink and whispers in the readers ear, almost unnoticeable.
I write because the world is deceptive and words are authentic. Not because I must.