I write and I blog, and I write some more.
I can’t stop. Not really.
I’ve got a tight grip on my writing pen; in other words, I write because I have to. When I’m not writing, I feel like there’s something missing in my life. When I am writing, I feel anchored and purposeful.
It’s that whole meaning-of-life, what-is-your-passion question.
Writing is my passion.
Sitting in front of a computer isn’t. I tire of sitting in front of computers, but I like using computers to write. Writing by hand is too time-consuming; plus, for me, my writing has turned to crap. I’m a journalist by day, so I spend lots of time in front of the notebook and computer, taking notes, organizing my thoughts and writing.
I write to a form.
And then after work, I write some more, at least a couple of days a week. I get in maybe five to 10 hours of novel and short story writing if I’m lucky. It’s hard to find the time, but it’s not so hard to find the passion, because it’s a given.
Though I love to write, I have to tell myself to write two to three times a week and to write even if I don’t feel like it. It’s ironic I love to write but then have to tell myself to write.
When I get into my writing, particularly a novel-length project, I find writing breaks apart the soul to lift out the words; it’s digging in and discovering beyond the top layer of insecurity of getting it wrong, wasting time and not finding the story, the characters, the setting.
It’s there; it’s just finding it with the elements of craft and patience and time and getting down and dirty.
It’s discipline; it’s need; it’s want.
And it’s exploration, adventure and unearthing what’s underneath.
(Musings on writing, and blogging about those musings)