Page 1, This is about why I write :) I hope you\'ll come to understand my passion.
A Blank Canvas
Imagine yourself, alone, in a dark room, with nothing but an easel, and placed upon it, a blank canvas. It’s eerie, sad. You feel hollow inside, as if someone has literally scraped out what makes you you.
Now, out of nowhere, you find a paintbrush in your hand. You look down at it; raise a sceptical eyebrow, before laughing tentatively. As unexpected, a tray, full of all colours of paints, appears in the other hand.
Although you don’t understand, you just shrug it off and look around.
A cold breeze suddenly sweeps around the room, and you shiver, frozen by the biting air. Now you realise everything they said that left you here is a lie. You look up to the ceiling, and see an endless abyss of torture.
Tears starting to roll down your cheeks, you dip the paintbrush into a deep blue paint and begin to carefully decorate the blank canvas.
Enjoyment slowly takes over, and you begin to work harder, concentrating on creating the masterpiece before you.
Slowly, the tears dry, and you change the colour. You’re brush is dipped in yellow paint now, and as you continue to work on the art, you begin to smile.
You’re alone. You’re cold. You’re terrified of what awaits you. But you’re still happy.
After a while, you’re painting is done, and you stand back at look at it.
Around you, you realise, the once dull room has transformed. Colours plaster the walls, foreign furniture is almost piled in, and you are surrounded by the people you most adore.
Then, you look at the walls again. There are no colours, no furniture, and not a soul is around. Looking back at your painting, you see that there it is, the world you created yourself. And you wish that you will always be able to stay there.
Why do I write? To escape. I take a blank sheet of paper and fill it with my words, to try and forget.
But that’s just the foundations. There’s something about the way a pen feels in my hand, the way the words flow when I let them on the paper that is just so... thrilling.
My eyes glaze over, and my brain fuzzes as I continue, focusing solely on the idea and the words that come with it.
I love to write. I am more passionate over my writing than I am anything else. When I have writer’s block, I spiral into what I like to call, ‘writer’s depression’, and can’t concentrate on anything else.
You all understand what we feel like when we write. We are a force of combined writers, and together we are unstoppable. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, and that is so true.
A word can be manipulated into anything. A weapon, a kind act, a new world, and an escape route. Words throw you into a pit, but they are what have doomed the people who have twisted them into evil.
Have you ever wondered why I write sad stories? It’s simply because the world is not perfect. I don’t want someone to fall in love, in a perfect relationship. I want one of them to be torn from the other, to make people understand that life has its ups, and its downs.
You can’t put into words why a writer likes writing. But I can put into words why I want to win.
I don’t want to win because of the prizes. I want to win because of the feeling when you know you’ve accomplished something. I know I probably won’t. I will, of course, congratulate those who win. They deserve it just as much, if not more than me. I entered this contest because of the challenge. To give me something to do with my hobby for a while, and hopefully, to meet some great people and read some great stories.
There are many people I hate in this world for what they’ve done to me. But I should really thank them. If I hadn’t had to escape them, I would’ve never really gone anywhere with my writing, and I wouldn’t be on this site, making some truly inspirational friends.
I went to listen to a real life author talk the other day. Her name is Meg Rosoff, and is the author of a book nominated for the Carnegie book award medal, The Bride’s Farewell. She told us a little about her life, how she came to be in a job she hated, and she was so worried that she would have to die without having achieved anything that she began to write, to do something with her life. To escape from the job that she felt imprisoned her.
There you have it. That’s why I write.
Ermmmm should I stop now? Cool... :)
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