On the shelves in my room – my writing, thinking, dreaming, procrastinating space, as I call it – there are close to a dozen books by famous writers, all lined up in a wobbly row. Dust scatters around their spines as the ceiling fan whirls away. In the sunlight, I see the dust taking flight.
On mornings such as this, I wonder the question, “Why do I write?”
Why indeed, when if money were the root of all, I’d be living under a bridge near the overpass, the roar of semis lulling me to sleep as the mosquitoes whip out their napkins and plunge their forked noses into my flesh.
If money doesn’t drive me to the keyboard, what does?
Is it Envy? A little bit.
I write because I can’t not write, and that’s not a typo there. Writing is something that I’ve always done, although never in the way that technology allows me to now. Word processing, computers, digital photos, self-publishing, all of this gives people like me, delirious with the urge to write, the means to write. And to be read.
To be read, to have my voice not silenced by death, but to live on, even if as a small speck on a blue-green orb tumbling through blackness. There’s the satisfaction of having written, too, the relief of putting down the pen for the day after writing and living the rest of the day in real moments.
I often ask myself if it’s worth it to sit in that room, surrounded by the greats and their immortal words. Surely I can never match their brilliance!
But I can have fun while trying, I guess!