Someone once asked me why I write. It
took me a long time to figure out how to explain it. There is a
drive, a passion to write. It's a need, much like hunger or thirst.
You can sate it temporarily, but it never truly goes away. Yet there
is so much more to writing. It's so much a part of me that I spent
months trying to describe it in a way others would understand. I
finally realised how simple an answer it really is. I write for the
same reason I breathe; because it is impossible for me to survive if
I don't.
Now that's not to say I would
physically die if I stop writing. My body would survive, but I would
not. If I cease writing, who I am will change. I would become someone
far darker, far colder, and far less sane than I am now.
Writing is my passion. But like
breathing, it is so much more than a choice. I can control my breath,
at least for a while. I can make myself breathe faster or slower. I
can breathe deeply, or take shallow puffs of air. I can even choose
not to breathe. Well, for a while at least. Eventually though, my
chest hurts. My lungs burn. My eyes start to water, and my face turns
red. Then, at some point instinct takes over, and I breathe again.
Even if I managed to maintain control,
eventually, I would pass out. The moment that happens, my body takes
over. Breathing becomes automatic. It doesn't require thought or
control. It happens all on its own. Air moves in and out of my lungs.
It happens as naturally and easily as, well, as breathing.
In a major way, I can control my
writing too. I can write more or less. I can choose when I write,
how much attention I pay to it, the topic I choose. I control
(mostly) what words I write, what colour I write in, and how often I
place my pen against paper. I can even choose to stop writing, at
least for a while.
But there are side effects. I begin to
feel on edge. I feel tired and drained. Dealing with the emotions of
the day exhausts me. I'm more likely to end up depressed. I'm more
irritable. I don't sleep as well. I experience more panic attacks.
Eventually, I feel like crawling out of my own skin.
And then, instinct takes over. Stories
pound in my head; voices invade my days. I catch myself singing songs
that have never been written, words that flow but slip from my memory
minutes later. I may be able to stop myself from physically writing
anything on paper, but I cannot completely prevent myself from
writing. It happens anyway. It's beyond my control, often beyond my
awareness. Writing is automatic. It's instinct, the way breathing is.
I write for the same reason I breathe;
because it is impossible to survive if I don't, because I simply
cannot stop. Instinct takes over. I write, because I breathe.
