A lot of people don’t understand why we write.

There are many reasons, of course, but explaining it can get a little complicated;  too little personal and sometimes, a little too honest.

I’ve met the glassy-eyed stares before, and was greeted by that inane little smile that said, “You’re weird.”

It’s a little heartbreaking to have people dismiss such a big part of you just because they don’t understand it.

But it doesn’t stop me from telling people that I write, that I’m a writer.

That I write because the broken pieces that I consist of click into place when I’ve got words running through my fingers.  I write because expressing the dozens of thoughts I entertain and the unexplained emotions that ebb and flow from some hidden place of nostalgia, is just too much.

I write because there’s an itch in my brain. Relieved only by creating a new place, or imaging the life of another person, or pretending (even for a moment), that we’re as amazing as we hope we are.

I write because somehow strangers I’ve never met know the ache in my chest when I miss someone; the burn in my throat when I’m trying not to cry; the trembling in my bones when everything in my life feels like it’s sinking my soul.

And then they tell me that it’ll get better, that I’ll overcome it one way or another and that at any given moment, the story can change.

I wanted to do that for someone by writing: To show them what hurts, to tell them it’s okay and then to show them, prove to them that they will.

Writing is the closest thing to magic I can get to, and isn’t that the strangest, most beautiful thing?

dalisaysulit


This blog centers on the things I write, things I like to read and everything in between that may inspire me to write which I hope you enjoy and can get inspired by too.

 

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