So. Why do I want to write? Why am I writing?
I don’t recall the context, but some time back I was faced with the question that went something like, “What is the one thing that you would want to do all your life, if you had absolutely no practical concerns to consider?”
My answer was to write.
I didn’t know if I were any good at it. I don’t have a clue even now. But my answer remains, to write. And I have a feeling that when I’m sixty and somebody poses the same question to me, my answer will still be it: to write.
It’s inexplicable. I feel I have something to write about. I have something to say, though I am yet to find out what it is, and to whom I will say it. Which brings me to: Why, then, should I be consumed by this desire to write a “what” that I haven’t even discovered yet? Is this my version of self-indulgence? Do I just want to be noticed, my ego to be fed by any possible recognition of my ability (in case I have a bit) to write, never mind that for all I know, I could just be (at best) a modish, pretty, clanging empty pot?
Lest I end up no different from those great speakers and writers of nothing, I have to take time to think. Find my purpose for writing, dig up and be acquainted with the creature that has long been tugging at my chest and urging me that I really should write.
I’ll keep chronicling my journey here, until I become clear with my “why,” and until my “what” takes full form.
This should be an interesting, adventure-filled trip, to say the least.