My piece for Tipsy Lit and Ericka Clay. Enjoy and chew slowly.
Originally posted on Tipsy Lit:
Why do I write?
I’ve been asked to explain this on more than one occasion, often in a Yuletide forum by relatives who want only what’s best for me. These questions are presented with an unassuming, furrowed brow and often contain the words ‘what’, ‘in’, ‘the’ and ‘hell’. Each time the question is posed, the more difficult I find it to answer. As time passes, the reasoning that once seemed so black and white, morphs more and more into a menagerie of Freudian color and malformations, looking less like the once straight forward presentation and more like the aftermath of a drunken war of paintbrushes between Pollock and Neiman.
As a child, the stories were necessary as an escape to the anything-but-civil war taking place in my house. But now, as an adult, that excuse, much like the ones used to justify biting my sister, no longer exists. So, why keep writing? Because the stories keep coming, whether I want them to or not. Sometimes they’ll wake me from a PG-13 dream (rated so as it may contain the occasional profanity) with a far from gentle nudge to my shoulder. “Hey, wake up! I just thought of a good story!” I may resent these at first, but getting it out on paper, in the end, is as thrilling an accomplishment for me as the mad scientist realizing his dream to create the ultimate death ray that will enslave mankind.