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Why Do I Write?

I Don’t Write

I don’t. It’s the simple truth.

I don’t write screenplays and novels. I give life to them. It’s not merely putting pen to paper, I breathe life into a non-existent void. I expand realms of desire and practicality and push the void of predetermined physics.

I don’t write. Nor do I have fictional characters that you watch scurry around a screen. I don’t have two-dimensional appearances that you follow along with as you flip a page.

I have friends and enemies. Each has a life, and came from somewhere, and are someone and love and hate and fear. They are not characters, they are people. They live as I live, they die as I die.

My friends make me smile, laugh, play, hide, scream and cry. They disappoint with their own actions, speak in their own voices and go about their own paths.

Why I Write

I Create

I don’t write. Create? Yes. Ponder ever-expanding possibilities? Yes. Push your mind to its limits of emotion and draw you back with a single word? Of course. But I don’t write.

Don’t think you merely read; because you are engulfed, consumed. You pick a side and fight the battle with your own personal hero.

You don’t read, you don’t watch. What do you do? You hold your breath in hope, let slide a tear out of fear.

You don’t read, you live. Just as I don’t write.

I live, too.

The Biggest Killer: Self-Doubt

Literary agents, publishers, editors, synopses, query letters… all scary things, all demanding, demeaning. Sometimes they can be daunting, haunting, loathing as well as loathed. Oftentimes heartbreaking, disconcerting, dispiriting. None of them hold a candle to yourself. You truly are your own worst critic. You alone can put out your flame …

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