Feeling trapped in a dead end job has forced me to take a hard look at my life up to this point. And the one question that comes to mind is.
Why do I write?
What odd combination of chemicals in my brain has led me to believe I can be a writer?
This is not doubt talking, as I’m quite confident in my ability to create. This is an honest search for an answer to explain the reasons behind what compels me to put pen to paper. Unlike other well known writers I had an idyllic childhood. There was no abuse, sexual or otherwise, to explain the driving need to create. I have no emotional problems, but I do suffer from clinical depression. I’ve been on and off the medication to control it as I see fit. I abhor taking the medicine as it makes me feel autonomous. Like it’s not really me in my skin anymore.
But digging deeper than that.
What is it in my psyche that compels me to sacrifice good money in exchange for several hours each day of pounding at the keyboard in the hope of creating something worthwhile?
I have enough experience in business that if I could devote half of the time and energy I put into my writing into building a business I’m confident that I would be very successful. But I hesitate, opting instead to stare at the blank page until beads of blood form on my forehead.
Money? Pfft, like that’s gonna happen.
Fame? Doubt it.
Without fame and fortune what is it that locks me to my keyboard every day of the week, Sundays included?
What is it that drives you to write?
Let’s put aside the bullshit and speak frankly about what it is that forces you to get up everyday and work on your latest project.