Why do I write?

I write because my fingers bleed words.

There may be times when they won’t,
just as they have been before,
and I know this hurts more than the bleeding.
Either way,
I must draw from this fount,
whether it trickles
or overflows.

I write because
I cannot gloat too long
at a well-crafted line,
at a poem that I would love to read several times over
– and so would my readers, I hope,
at a plot that may momentarily remind me of my brilliance.
Note to self: calm down.

I write because
I cannot just stay in a rut
when failure deepens its pit around myself,
when I might question if it is worth it all,
this staying awake at an odd hour
to the company of just a cup of black coffee,
and the rustling of pages
or the clanging of the keyboard,
when I have doubt whether my words will make an impression,
or worse still,
when I wonder if they will be read at all.

After all,
the world does not owe me a reader
because I choose to write.
It does not owe me
a Booker, a Pulitzer, a Nobel
or even an Ignobel.
It does not owe me acclaim,
or even a pinch of applause
because I’ve spent months or years
working on my Magnum Opus.

The debt, if any,
is one I owe to my readers
as they go through my work.
I can only repay it
by ensuring
their journey is worth the time.

Image source: https://www.pexels.com/photo/person-using-macbook-pro-990825/

2 thoughts on “Why do I write?

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