I've been staring at the screen blankly. Waiting for the words to miraculously dance onto the page. I admit, I have asked myself this question numerous of times. Why do I write? I have came to the conclusion that I just don't know. Although, I am realizing that it is okay not to. Perhaps it was because I was friends with a girl who has been writing stories since she was in the third grade and it perked my interest, or maybe it was listening to my cousin's sappy love poems she wrote in a yellow spiral when I was nine. It could have all started when the first girl I fell in love with dismantled my heart and I needed to find some way to mend the broken bits back together. Possibly it was all of those reasons combined. But I do know this, I am starving. I have such a hunger to make my writing better and stronger that I can feel the words rush through my finger tips like stream water. I have learned to take poisoned words that have been spit at me, to transform them into fire. My weapon. I have a vigorous desire to indulge myself into writing. So no, I don't know why I write, but it's what I do. I don't know how this all started, and maybe that's just the adventure itself. And I will continue on.
"Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open." -Natalie Goldberg