I honestly don’t know why I want to be a writer. Okay, I guess I know why I do. But I can never shake the feeling of desperately wishing that it wasn’t what I feel compelled to do. Should I list my reasons why being a writer is a waste of time, a stupid thing? I’m not going to. They’ve caused me to quit writing before, but I’ve always gone back; apparently I have no say in what I want to do. So I should remind myself of the reasons I do want to be a writer. Firstly, undeniably, I just love books. I love reading. No mystery that I would want to contribute to my favorite art form. Secondly, I love writing. Not the act of writing, I’m not talking about myself; I’m talking about every other writer who ever wrote a book that I read. I love the idea of it, the intangibility of language, words. I love that a writer can take these abstract building blocks and create an uncommon (or common) work which can build worlds in the mind of the reader. This is enough of a philosophy for me to live my life under. But I still maintain I wasn’t given a choice.
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