Why do I Write?

Why do I Write?

 

Why do I write?

 

That is a question a lot of people ask me and it is one I often ask myself.

 

Writing is a lonely, sedentary task. It is time consuming, frustrating and unrewarding in many ways.

It was Paul Simon who wrote ‘All my words come back to me – in shades of mediocrity – like emptiness in harmony’.  That about sums it up.

 

I am not the next John Fowles. I did not study English Literature. Why do I think I can write?

 

I write because I know I can articulate the contents of my mind into words that will resonate with my readers. I know I can and sometimes I do.

 

I write because I have a head that is full of passions, ideas, thoughts, opinions and stories and I have a burning need to write them down. I enjoy writing as much as I do reading – and I love reading.

 

I am not religious. I do not believe in any god or afterlife; I do not believe there is an ultimate purpose. I believe we have to give life a purpose. We have to strive to make the world a better place. Writing does that for me.

 

I love nature and am destroyed by what we are doing to the planet. It eats me up.

I write about the things that mean something to me. I am a communicator who is an idealist; I believe we can make things better.

 

I write because I believe in creativity. Creating something beautiful or passionate gives purpose and fulfilment. My books contain the wonder in my head.

 

I write because it is difficult. Writing a novel is like climbing Everest. It is so hard that it leaves you with a sense of fulfilment when you’ve achieved it. I’ve climbed a lot of mountains.

 

I write because I am a rebel who wants to change the system. I want to change it because it stinks. I think we can do better.

 

I write about my passions.

 

There are no rules. I like to push the limits in every way going. My books are different. They are sometimes extreme.

 

I write for fun.

 

I have written 49 books and published twenty four. Twenty two are available on Amazon. They are my babies. They will live longer than me.

 

I dread to think how many hours I have sat in the dark typing on an old type-writer or pounding the keyboard on my various computers. How much of my life? How many tens of thousands of hours?

A book would take me a couple of thousand hours. I done rewrite after rewrite.

 

So far I have earned around £700 for all those efforts. I make about a dollar a book. It’s not a great return. If it was about the money I could have worked in a filling-station and bought a house!

 

It’s not about the recognition. You write into a relentless vacuum.

 

It is sometimes the most discouraging, pointless, lonely task in the world. Sometimes I read what I have written and despair.

 

But I’m still writing!

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