This is a question I often ask my fellow writers, and often the answer varies between – “we write because we can” to “because I would go insane if I didn’t”. I think I would fit in the insane category.
I am, by nature, a creative person. If I am not writing, I am beading. If I am not beading I am writing. If I am not doing either, I am a fidgety ball of mess that just can’t handle the world around me. How did I ever become such an emotional wreck?
I have been writing for as long as I remember. My first “publication” was when I was at primary school. I wrote a story about an alley cat (funnily enough called Alley cat…) and Mum typed it up for me, I made a cover for it and Mum stapled the story inside. I made many books in this fashion, all of which, very sadly, have been lost in the many moves that we have made in our lives.
Writing was something I did to escape the monotony of every day life. At night, I would write screes and screes of pages about subjects I didn’t know about but would write anyway. My first “novel” was called My Idol, Simon Le Bon. We won’t go into details because they are a tweenie’s (okay, and probably a teen too) fantasy about a man that would never enter her life, but hey – as I said, escapism.
As I grew older, the ideas became more complex, along with my every day life. Perhaps the fact I am a Pisces really does help with my creative “head in the clouds” attitude, but the more stranger my life became, the more I escaped into my writing. My first marriage crumbled and I wrote more and more to cover up the pain in my life at that particular time. I had at least 5 exercise books, filled with stories by this time.
Sometimes life imitated the stories I was writing. I started a murder mystery about a cop who was killed with several suspects in mind. Not long later, a man was murdered in the same town I live in, his murderer has not yet been identified. I wondered if I finished the story whether the murderer would be found – does that show you how bad I have blurred the line between reality and fiction?
Now, underneath my bed, is a concertina file, each little sleeve has its own piece of paper or notebook or exercise book with ideas relating to that story. Every now and again another piece of paper is placed lovingly into the file to “mutate”, while another notebook is extracted and the ideas expanded.
I guess I essentially write because I need an outlet for my over active imagination. I write because if I don’t, ideas would explode out of my head and create a huge vacuum in space that would begin the next black hole.
I write because of the intense satisfaction I get from plotting revenge on someone who wronged me in life.
I write because I get to be a god… I create worlds, universes, order, control, chaos. I am the master of my universe, which seems to be expanding on a daily basis.
I write, because it gives me peace of mind (and allows me to finally get some sleep at night!)