Why I Stop. Why I Start. Writing.


I’ve been listening to the clock tick for some time now. It’s far easier than listening to silence of my fingertips not tapping away at my keyboard or pressing pen against paper.  With each passing second, with my mind’s eye, I watch the actions of my characters. I listen to their ceaseless dialogues, contemplate the reason for their existence, and stare in wonder at the worlds that my mind has constructed.  After all of that, I wonder how my mere words can capture all that I’ve just experienced.

What are beautiful words and sentences?  What is literature with the capital L, and am I able to create it?  Are my words worthwhile?

After all of that self-doubt, I realize, once again, that I only need to write for myself.  Perhaps no one will ever read it.  Perhaps it will never be considered Literature. Perhaps I will never be able to capture what my mind clearly experiences with all five senses. Perhaps, perhaps, and more perhaps.

Perhaps I’m only granted the remainder of this day, so what words do I wish to leave behind?


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