I have often wondered what drives a person to write, and more to the point, why I write. On occasion I have examined my need to write in my own poetry and prose. ”Why Write” came about not long after I began reading my poetry a loud at the Salisbury Art Centre Poetry Café and one of the audience members asked me why I wrote. I have been asked this question a number of times over the years and as all the others at this time I wasn’t able to come up with an adequate answer. The question rattled around in my head for quite some time after the latest asking until I was driven to write “Why Write”.
Someone asked me once “Why do you write?” I couldn’t answer them, I simply didn’t know, decades of prolific work spanned out before me and I didn’t know? Now time has marched on and that question still rings within my ears begging for an answer to be told.
Why do I unfold the tortured soul out upon the page, why is the written word the only way to vent my rage? Why does my heartache court my prose, why here that my constant quest for wisdom only ever told?
How come the words always seem to fit, the sentences to knit and then follows truth, spinning out this epic tale of a woman named Ruth?
When you read my words what do they speak to you, what dark secrets do they unearth that you never knew? Where do you go as you close your eyes and my prose washes over you? What light do they leave in your heart as they wipe away the stain of my unending fear?
I know now why I write, a part of me has always known, but so simple an answer too inconceivable to be the whole truth.
I write because I must, because to not to is to deny my whole. I write because I breathe, because to not to is not a choice. I write because writing is simply who I am, because poetry runs as surely as blood through these veins.
My words, my constant companions until the moment I cease to breathe, their existence testament to this life and the thoughts in my head. May they live long in the hearts and minds of other when I am finally just dust and dead.