I have been asked, essentially, “Why do you want to write?” My answer was moderately vague. Here’s a better one.
Last week, on a whim, I followed a picture I saw into a character description, followed that into a setting, followed the setting into a situation and wrote a short story. Liking what I’d done, I rewrote it, asked for critique, received some, applied what I liked, and rewrote again. Today or tomorrow I will send it off to an editor for professional consideration.
I wrote less than an hour last week, unless I count rewriting. I’m inclined to count the rewriting, because it’s part of the work — and I enjoyed it, so it’s all good.
None of that is what I wanted, though.
All through this last week, I’ve had a story in my head, peopled and placed, and it has lived with me, going where I went and taking me where it goes. I lived with it, played with it, cussed at it, and loved it — not “I love this story”, but “I am giving this story the love it needs.”
And I got that back.
That’s what I wanted.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry