Why Do I Write?
As I read the work of others, a thought occurs to me.
Why do I write? I know I will never be as good as what I am reading.
Yet still, I continue on, trying to make a name for myself.
Why do I sit blankly in front of a computer, trying to will a sentence out?
I have no real audience, just the few that read a piece or two.
Oh, and the few friends that pity me and read as I ask.
I stare at a screen and hope that something of consequence will come up.
I write page after page hoping that it is going to be great.
I try my hand at poetry, hoping to wow with my skill at the written word.
So, again, why do I write?
For the fun of it.
For the novel inside me that I know is just waiting to be written.
For the love of the written word.
It’s a love.
It’s an obsession.
It’s a need.
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