I write because I love to. When I write, my word is law, my word is everything. The paper may go wherever I choose to take it, the paper may take any route I ask of it. Long or short, casual or captivating, realistic or fantastical, informative or entertaining – I and only I can make the choice. I am lord over my written word. I hold the power to create anything – to place into existence whatever may cross my mind. I bring impossible ideas and creatures to life, I invent places and ideas that could never be real. I twist and manipulate, I interpret and create. The possibilities are limitless and infinite, reaching out to the stars and beyond.


I write because I have to. I have no choice. I must be good at writing, for what else can I excel at? Not math, surely, and consequently never science. History, music sports? Impractical, dull, unimaginative. Interests of mine are infinite, but talents remain stubbornly limited. Writing is the only talent that may take me places; that could get me into college, that could land me a career. What else have I got to carry me but writing? How fortunate it is that I love writing, for it wouldn’t matter if I despised it as I would still be forced to write.


I write because I want to. Because I want to prove myself to myself. Because I want to know that I can. I write because I strive to be best, to top all. I write because I long to see my name in print, at the top of the page, placing myself and my skill above so many others. My life is a competition, my life is a race against itself. I live to improve, I live to become better, and I live to, one day, one beautiful far-off day, become the best of all else.


I write because I need to. Because the physical word is so dull and boring and limited. Because our earth is governed by physics, strictly held down by science. Because when we leap off the ground, our feet must return to Earth. Because when we wish an object to move, our hands must make contact. Because when the wind whistles through the trees the branches move, and when the Earth rotates the sun it must never stop. I write to escape such tied down, solid laws. I write so that I may live in a world where nothing is impossible and anything may happen. I write to exist in a place where we may fly by snapping our fingers, and travel to different dimensions. I write to exist in a place where 5-headed monsters sprout from a seed and may be battled with the power of single green-eyed glare. I write to escape reality and to leave behind a stifling, choking world where some things are impossible.


I write because I dare to. Because I bravely venture into terrifying scenarios and vulgar areas. I have to courage to seek out areas of the world where death and torture are rampant, where agony and sorrows are all that exists, where humiliation and emotional torment become a disturbing reality. I write words that people gasp at, that have them wonder how the innocent mind of a 14 year old girl became so corrupted. I write graphic portrayals of death and intimate descriptions of pain and horror. The social laws that limit my speech and oppress the open mind cease to block my words, and I take horrific pleasure in slicing them down, bit by bloody bit, with my sharply poisoned sword, listening to the angry screams and bitter thoughts that others wreak for them.


I write because I’ve got to. Because my mind is constantly working, constantly thinking, and rarely getting anywhere. My thoughts and ideas and emotions clog up the passageways of my brain and form a knotted jam, blocking the new coming in and old coming out. I confuse myself, I mix up my own thoughts and feelings. To pour them out into written words on paper, lets me to organize them, to skim off the excess, to see with my own eyes the workings inside my mind. The brain is a darkened place that is difficult to navigate; I must take my thoughts and bring them where there’s light so that I may see clearly what they are. When I think, I think in swirls and knots and clusters, jumbled and tangled and mixed up all with others. When I write, I untangle and unknot and sort out clusters, till finally I see where I must go and what I must do. Without writing I get nowhere. Without writing the raw emotions are never processed, the deeply concealed feelings never unearthed, new thoughts never discovered. I write because I have little other choice.


Writing is vital, words are my life. Words are my soothers, words are my tormenters, words are what I love and hate and need with a burning passion. Some live to write, but rather I write to live. Without words, I am an empty shell of flesh and bone, moving and breathing but never alive. Without words, I would be matter without substance, creation with no purpose, worthless, meaningless, nothingness.