I have found an awesome blog written by my friend, Reyna Johnson. I don't know if I'm supposed to say her name, haha. I immediately loved her writing style, and all her posts just seem so effortless every time I read them. But this post I will share because it captured what I really feel about writing. Truly, it is a gift you can't deny. :)On Writing
For some, writing is a mere tool, a means to an end. Perhaps an end of getting a good grade, or of proclaiming their tenets to the world. And nothing’s wrong with that. But for me, writing is itself an end. I write the way some people sing in the shower. They’re not rehearsing for a performance, nor are they trying to brighten the morning of anyone in hearing range. They sing because they can.
Much of what I write, no one has even glimpsed. I write because an idea in my head begs for release. Perhaps the idea is the germ of a fictitious story or maybe it’s a deep, sobering thought that needs analyzing. Sometimes my writing’s dark and lonely, crying out like a child lost in a desolate wood. At other times it sings like a lark and dances under a cloudless sky, mafficking in endless bliss.
That’s not to say that all the musings I commit to paper are mere inward ponderings. I am a communicator and writing is my preferred method of communication. By writing, I can express myself more fully than I ever could by speaking. I take the time to reflect on the words that pour forth from my fingers, to patiently modify each word until it is a mirror image of what I feel, the way an actor will make the slightest of changes in his performance until he reaches perfection. When I write, I have an entire world at my fingertips, waiting for me to breathe life onto its barren shores and fill it with creatures beyond imagining. I can take a peasant and turn him into a king, transform a king into a pauper. I can take a single sentence and string it out like a rope of pearls gleaming in the sun. I can take an idea and transform it into a tiny seed I plant in my readers’ hearts, to take root and blossom into hope.
This is why I write. To scream love to the heavens, to whisper promise to the wind. To etch in stone who I am, to declare for all time what I believe. To examine my most inward thoughts and express my most pressing needs. I write because I am compelled to write, because writing is my gift, a gift that cannot be denied. So I write, and lift my voice for all to hear.
Long days and pleasant nights from the Tale-Weaver.
