Adventures in Writing: Why I Write

There are so many ways I can answer the question “Why I Write” so I thought I’d share a few.

Adventures in Writing

Because if I didn’t my mind would explode.

I saw on Twitter the hashtag “Why I Write” trending, so here you go.

There were a few years that the only thing I wrote were a few blog posts now and then. I wasn’t working. Finding a job was difficult. People were difficult. Yet, I didn’t write. I can’t give you a reason as to why I wasn’t writing. But now that I think on this, I’m convinced the thread of depression that runs through my life was at its thickest gauge then.

I should have been writing my ass off. No ifs, ands, or buts. I should have been writing my ass off. That time is gone and will forever be one of my biggest regrets. I do what I can to have a weekly post. I sit down and write every day on my lunch unless there’s something preventing me from doing so. I’ll never make up for the time lost, but I’ll be damned if I have too many open moments that go by without writing down the idea that pops in my head ever again.

Because I have a day job that suffocates my creativity.

The phrase that kills most places is “we’ve always done it this way, so that’s how we’ll do it.” And while we tend to thrive more often than not, there are so many times I hear this phrase – or its cousin “it is what it is” that I just want to scream.

There’s no such thing as a straight yes or no answer. I can’t even get a Yes, but or No, and answer. My job is technically somewhat creative and it’s brutally butchered on a regular basis. I work in spreadsheets or code or unable to do so because I’m doing another job that prevents me from doing mine. Luckily, I can be funny and sarcastic and sometimes I can even toe the line and be smutty-minded with some people and that is where I get those sparks of ideas for stories.

Because I love to read and sometimes I can’t stand what I’m reading.

Lately, I know what it feels like to read a blurb so well done that I’m ready to 1-click a title so fast my bank account gets dizzy. And then partway in, I regret it. I don’t return the title. I don’t review the title, no matter how many harassing emails The Zon sends me. I can’t. I can’t say anything nice. I can’t say anything positive. And what’s even worse – I know, what can be even worse than all of those things – is that I can’t always warn people off of them in person either.

It seems like people want to read about the (potential) rape of a woman. I don’t know why. I don’t want to read abuse in fiction. I don’t want to read rape in what’s supposed to be a romance. I don’t want to watch a jerk of a guy tear down the well-built walls of a woman who’s been burned before and Stockholm Syndrome her into loving him. The real world is all too painful and I don’t want it in my fiction.

I hope that my writing shows people that you can have consensual sex-positive sexy relationships. I want to teach people that it can be fun and funny and sexy and smutty and it can be so good. You don’t need a jerk of a guy. You don’t need a woman who’s resting-bitch face needs to be chiseled off by some asshole who tells her to smile.

Because the voices in my head won’t shut up.

Psst. Did you hear that? The voice screaming inside, begging you to write this one little thing down? Just one thing. It won’t hurt to just write one little phrase down. You need to capture it now or it’ll forever be gone and THIS line is THE one that will launch THE STORY. The one that gets noticed and bought thousands of times over.

And I give in. I write down the thing. And then I write down another thing. Soon, there’s a story forming. I build upon all the things given to me. I give it form and shape. I give it emotions and toss in a little spicy heat to get you writhing in your seat. My mind feels calm and collected. I’ve done the thing. I’ve earned a little respite until my mind is over-full and my fantasies run amok. There are people who run. There are people who meditate. There are people who write. (People who do all three are overachievers and I think they need to quit showing off.)

Because writing is a way to interpret the world around me.

Hi there! I’m a Pisces born on the Cusp of Aries, with Libra Rising and on top of all that I’m an emotional people-pleasing sponge that’s also a personable introvert stuck in CubeLand six and a half hours a day and answering the phones the other hour and a half. I rely a lot on my gut. I’m working to never ignore it again because every single time I have HELL HAS RAINED DOWN UPON ME.

Every day is a practice of breathing and zipping my lips. I’m very honest about being mean. I’m also very honest about being vicious-minded. I keep myself on a very short metaphorical leash. I use my anger and rage and fear and the energy they create to write sex-positive smutty goodness. My preference is to put something good out into the world. Instead of keeping the emotions pent up all the time, I put them to a better use. Getting people off is an excellent use of my crazy.

Because writing is adventurous, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching work and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Growing up poor, watching people around me waste money on getting wasted, seeing kids get things I’d never have made me turn to books. I could go anywhere in books. I could be anyone in books. Experiencing all kinds of adventures in books, even things that didn’t exist in the world. Anywhere was better than here. Sometimes, that is still the case. I pick up a book to take me out of this hellacious world we are living in because it’s a short escape from the shocking and atrocious savagery.

Reading is so much better than spending time being jealous or yelling at the sky about life being unfair. Picking up a book gives me an inkling into someone else’s mind. Writing a story gives someone a sliver of a notion about mine. Sometimes I’m asked if any of my stories are true. They are not. There may be a smidge here or there that’s taken from life, but it’s such a tiny sliver that it is probably also a false memory created by my brain to get me through yet another disappointing experience.

Because I can.

Why not write? I have the ability to put words to paper, or tap keys to make them appear on the digital paper in this case, so why wouldn’t I? I can create new worlds. I can put my dreams and fantasies down and hope that perhaps some of them will come true. If not for me then for someone else. I hope that my smutty stories inspire someone to do their own research, to enhance their actual life, in a good healthy way. I want to raise curiosity. This is my way of sharing what’s going on in my silly stupid brain with the world. It might not be your way to express creatively, and that’s okay. But do something.

Be angry. Fuel the rage. And then turn it into something positive that others will look at and become ensnared and have a happy, healthy, experience.

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