Recently, I felt like I lost my writing voice. I had the feeling that my words were simply too mundane for everyday life. I felt like I had nothing to offer in terms of literary wisdom.
Moments like that make me question myself. I simply ask
“Why did I start writing?”
It has been previously established that baring my soul in wordy form is an unpremeditated pastime for me. But, every now and then I do love the opportunity to open up a tiny weeny part of me to the world. A wise person once told me to open up but I decided to make the opening as teeny as possible.
“Nobody is an aspiring writer. You write or you don’t. so write and call yourself a writer?” – Grey Daugherty.
But, why do I choose to write?
Occasionally, the voices in my head wants to be heard. They echo, “Let us out!”
They want other people to feel what they are feeling. What is life if you cannot share your story? Since eloquence has since failed me and my shaky legs won’t allow me to stand before a crowd I have decided to stick to an art without walls – writing.
Writing is the window that I have decided to slightly open. Hopefully, the window gets wider with time. Hopefully!
Are you a writer? If yes, why do you write?
If not, why not?