I am not a professional writer, the reason being that I’m afraid that I will be confined to it for the rest of my life and it will not be enjoyable anymore. When I must be a barnacle that anchors itself on a rock, I witness everything the rock experiences. Even the gradual erosion that pounds at the rock, that brings it ever closer to becoming a nobody. The tanzanite waves splash on it, weathering the rock down. The rock weathers down, and so does my interest in it. (I am aware that there are some published authors that follow the Imagination Igloo. I’m not trying to persuade you to quit. This is just my personal opinion.)
But I still like to write. I write because I find comfort in writing and writing makes up for my abysmal speech. If you’d hear me speak, you’d hear a lot of contradictions and confusing words. Then you’d think I was a complete liar. I’d do much better by writing what I have to say and then reading it.
I write because I’m fascinated by how words don’t literally form pictures when reading stories, like a Wordle. But then they come together in a person’s mind to form a visualization. Cool, isn’t it?
I write because my imagination is an empire now, and I want to conquer new territories. It’s been doing this since who knows when. Unlike a lot of imaginations, my imagination hasn’t reached its downfall yet. I don’t think it will, so long as I keep on writing.
I write because I want certain things to happen, and writing makes them come true, both literally and figuratively.