Someone asked me today why I started writing. I was tempted to pull up my blog and say, here, read THIS. Of course, I did not. I’ve already addressed why I started writing, it was an attempt to control my life. An attempt to control something I felt was spiraling into the black abyss of averageness. (I love the phrase black abyss, by the way. I realize it’s a bit redundant, but I don’t care. I’ve used it elsewhere in my writing, but I can’t remember where at this moment. This may make my overall point completely off-base, you’ll have to be the judge.)
I think the real question is: Why have I continued writing?
Hmmm… Now isn’t that a doozy. I could simply say I enjoy it, which is true. I could say I have nothing better to do, which is basically true. Or I could say that once I started, I felt a pull, a compelling need to keep going, which is definitely true as well.
But none of those are the real reasons I continue to write.
I keep writing because deep down, I think I’m good at it.
Okay, how horrible is that? And vain. I know. But, I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn’t continue on a path I thought would lead to nothing. Again, read my first post and how many times I switched my career goals.
(OH! I just remembered where I used the term “black abyss” in my other writing. It’s in Chapter 47 of Twenty-Five. I hope this admission doesn’t make you seriously reconsider whether or not you want to read Twenty-Five, unless you didn’t want to read it before and now knowing it has such an awesomely redundant but kinda-cool-poetic phrase you do.)
I write now because I think I’ve found something I actually do have a talent for. I could be completely wrong. I hope I’m not. I normally don’t take praise to heart, but I’ve made friends based on my writing. People I never would have met or known have read and ENJOYED my book. Maybe I shouldn’t believe every word of positive feedback they give, but it can’t ALL be BS, right?
Since I graduated college, I’ve been wondering where all my potential went. I found it with a pen in my hand. And that’s why I continue to write.