Writing is my curse…

I made myself belief I want to be a writer, years ago, I think I was in grade 10, and I stuck to that… I don’t usually stick to things, I jump in, head first, for a few days, sometimes even weeks, and then it sizzles out.

But writing… writing stuck…

I don’t know why, but whatever I’m feeling, writing helps that emotion. If I’m happy, and I write, I become happier. When I’m feeling a tad depro, and I write about it, it’s like the ink that flows onto the paper is my black mood, and when I’m done with that poem, flash fiction, letter, email, blog post, I feel better. I feel good.

And the weirdest part is, I write better when I’m sad, and I write sad stories a lot better than happy stories. Some head-doctor will try to diagnose that to something, but to me it just means I understand the sad part of my brain better than I do the happy part.

Because my happy-brain, she’s a bitch… She throws herself into things with no regrets and no handle on life. She jumps, no thinking about consequence or reason, because she is a flowerchild, a flowerchild who covers up the sadness, who magics away the blackness.

I’m probably crazy, I get that a lot, but writing helps with that craziness, writing takes a bit of it away, and sometimes puts a bit back. But mostly, writing is just an outlet for the crazy…

I tell myself, I write because I want to leave something behind, I want a legacy, or at least a shot at one… but I lie… I write because a new notebook and pen is way cheaper than a shrink and a prescription for antidepressants. And if, maybe, my writing one day means something, to some one else… yay… but at the moment, and most of the time, I write for selfish reasons. To help myself, and to get praise…

But this curse of writing, its something I don’t ever want to lose, or swap for anything. because it means so much to me…

Why do you write??


Love Always,


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