Musing - Why I write (Lisa)

Someone once asked me why I write. It took me a long time to figure out how to explain it. There is a drive, a passion to write. It's a need, much like hunger or thirst. You can sate it temporarily, but it never truly goes away. Yet there is so much more to writing. It's so much a part of me that I spent months trying to describe it in a way others would understand. I finally realised how simple an answer it really is. I write for the same reason I breathe; because it is impossible for me to survive if I don't.

Now that's not to say I would physically die if I stop writing. My body would survive, but I would not. If I cease writing, who I am will change. I would become someone far darker, far colder, and far less sane than I am now.

Writing is my passion. But like breathing, it is so much more than a choice. I can control my breath, at least for a while. I can make myself breathe faster or slower. I can breathe deeply, or take shallow puffs of air. I can even choose not to breathe. Well, for a while at least. Eventually though, my chest hurts. My lungs burn. My eyes start to water, and my face turns red. Then, at some point instinct takes over, and I breathe again.

Even if I managed to maintain control, eventually, I would pass out. The moment that happens, my body takes over. Breathing becomes automatic. It doesn't require thought or control. It happens all on its own. Air moves in and out of my lungs. It happens as naturally and easily as, well, as breathing.

In a major way, I can control my writing too. I can write more or less. I can choose when I write, how much attention I pay to it, the topic I choose. I control (mostly) what words I write, what colour I write in, and how often I place my pen against paper. I can even choose to stop writing, at least for a while.

But there are side effects. I begin to feel on edge. I feel tired and drained. Dealing with the emotions of the day exhausts me. I'm more likely to end up depressed. I'm more irritable. I don't sleep as well. I experience more panic attacks. Eventually, I feel like crawling out of my own skin.

And then, instinct takes over. Stories pound in my head; voices invade my days. I catch myself singing songs that have never been written, words that flow but slip from my memory minutes later. I may be able to stop myself from physically writing anything on paper, but I cannot completely prevent myself from writing. It happens anyway. It's beyond my control, often beyond my awareness. Writing is automatic. It's instinct, the way breathing is.

I write for the same reason I breathe; because it is impossible to survive if I don't, because I simply cannot stop. Instinct takes over. I write, because I breathe.