Sometimes I have a lot to say, but for me, speaking words is never as easy as writing them.
I write because I can laugh and cry, but I can’t sing, or dance.
I can cook, but not well, so I write. I can do math, but not well, so I write. I can write, but not well, so I write.
In writing, if something isn’t working, return to the beginning and fix it. In this way, traveling back in time is possible.
In writing, it is possible to know the end before there was ever a beginning. In this way, the future can be seen.
The present alludes me in writing, for which I am eternally grateful because writing allows me to hate the present and all those that swear by it.
I write because it is fun and it isn’t hard work. I mean it isn’t backbreaking work. If a pen is the heaviest thing I have to lift all day, I am doing something right.
I write because its not as messy as painting, sculpting, or dissecting cadavers in the public library.
Others are writing because they possess some sort of egotistical motivation to create, I am not like them. Psyche! I am totally like them. I write because I want attention and adoration, not because I have an inner voice urging me to create something beautiful.
I write because I have voices that want to put a plastic bag over my ego’s head and suffocate it.
Practice makes perfect, so I write.
One in the hand is worth two in the bush, so I write.
What goes up must come down, so I write.
I write because it gives me an excuse to do things (and not do things).
What else am I going to do when I am all alone, for hours on end? Masturbate? Drink? Do drugs? Do drugs, drink, and masturbate? Well, yes, but I can do all those things and write at the same time.
Writing can please my parents and it can please my friends.
Writing can disturb my parents and it can disturb my friends.
I write because I have like a hundred and thirty five, four, three, two, one more words left till I hit the mark.
Not ever asking myself why I, or we, write made me want to find out.
Why anything is a stupid question. I don’t care what anybody says. Nobody knows why they do anything. All this…this is all just a guess, an estimation. I mean, how do I even know that this is really writing? I don’t. Not with complete certainty.
That’s because I am a robot. This is what I have been programmed to do. The designer of my series, a five legged Cat named Patches, gave me the command. She is a sweetie, as long as her food dish never drops below a third full.
I write because, frankly, it’s none of your business and I am happy to share.