When Asked Why I Write, I Answer:
I don’t. It’s the simple truth.
I don’t write screenplays and novels. I give life to them. It’s not merely putting pen to paper, I breathe life into a non-existent void. I expand realms of desire and practicality and push the void of predetermined physics.
I don’t write. Nor do I have fictional characters that you watch scurry around a screen. I don’t have two-dimensional appearances that you follow along with as you flip a page.
I have friends and enemies. Each has a life, and came from somewhere, and are someone and love and hate and fear. They are not characters, they are people. They live as I live, they die as I die.
My friends make me smile, laugh, play, hide, scream and cry. They disappoint with their own actions, speak in their own voices and go about their own paths.
I don’t write. Create? Yes. Ponder ever-expanding possibilities? Yes. Push your mind to its limits of emotion and draw you back with a single word? Of course. But I don’t write.
Don’t think you merely read; because you are engulfed, consumed. You pick a side and fight the battle with your own personal hero.
You don’t read, you don’t watch. What do you do? You hold your breath in hope, let slide a tear out of fear.
You don’t read, you live. Just as I don’t write.
I live, too.