I wish I understood why I write because I am honestly unsure why I do. I go through stretches where I feel driven, and I write without caring about anything other than trying to convey a thought as eloquently as possible. Then I ask myself: Why am I wasting my time? Who cares what I think, say or do?
I have tried writing fiction, but for me it seems pointless. I understand that it serves its purpose, and I truly admire those who are able to tell a story purely from the perspective of their own imagination. I have tried it, and it is not easy. When I say it seems pointless, I mean that it is pointless for me since I can not come close to putting the passion into something that I have not lived. Thus it becomes evident in my words.
I have tried writing about my own experiences, and have even taken the liberty to embellish them in an attempt to make what has, quite honestly, been a ho-hum journey. The problem that I always seem to stumble onto is that I decide, after two or three thousand words, it’s really not that compelling. I convince myself that I would have lost the reader by now, and I allow myself to walk away.
There is also the subject matter. Whenever I have the passion to write, it is usually because someone has died. That can get a little depressing. I don’t like being depressed, but I sometimes get the feeling that I have to be in a depressed state of mind to be able to be passionate – that scares me. I think I understand why this seems to be the case. When I feel upbeat about life I am too busy living it, enjoying it, and experiencing it to spend my time writing. Therefore, if I am spending a lot of time writing – well, let’s just say that for me that probably isn’t a good sign.
Of course there is always the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room – writing to make money. I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have never made one penny from anything I have written. I have mixed feeling about that. First of all I never went to school to be a writer; “computer information systems” seem to be an unconventional path into writing, but it is my path.
I guess the fact that I am writing about “writing” indicates that it has a grip on me. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know if I should fight it, or try to embrace it. I don’t know if I should talk to someone about it, or even “who” I would talk to about it. The thought of writing for a purpose, and searching for that purpose, really has me screwed up.
Is it just me?



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