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The most tried and true fact of being a writer is that a writer writes - period. Being a writer means knowing unequivocally what it is you're meant to do in life. Knowing why you feel compelled to do it however, is another matter altogether.

Ask any writer why they write and they are guaranteed to give you a variety of answers. Some will tell you it's a calling or that they simply aren't good at anything else. Others will say that it's a good way to express themselves creatively, that writing is therapeutic. Others may do it simply for the money. While the reasons may vary, none of them speak to the true heart of what a writer is and what motivates them to put pen to paper. The urge to write is compelled by something deeper and more organic than cheap therapy or easy money. Writers write, simply, because it's instinctual. The same primal desire that moves a painter or a musician is what moves a writer.

Lately, I've been thinking about writing, turning the idea of it over in my head. I've been thinking about why I do it, what I hope to get out of it. What I like best about writing is the idea that I'm creating something real, using words to spin webs of emotion, feeling. But what do I want to get out of writing? What's my purpose in doing it? Where do I think it will take me? These are the harder questions, the one whose answers are less obvious.

I went out today in search of inspiration. I thought that if I looked hard enough, I'd be able to track it down somehow, that it would be something tangible. I went to the bookstore and roamed the aisles, studying the different books. All of them evidence that it can be done. I walked through the bargain section, wondering why these books were different, why they didn't make it. Is it enough to have a written a book or does it have to be a success to count?

Why do I write? I do it in part to get certain thoughts out of my head. I do it to see what I can do with words, how far I can push myself. Mostly, I do it because I have to. I can put it off but I always come back to it in the end; there is no leaving it for good. All these months I've considered it practice for something else, but what? There are so many books, so many stories out there already. What can I add to this history?

Tonight, I read through my journals, my notebooks, sifting through the words for a seed, a spark. There are bits and pieces of poems, stories, essays, lines scribbled in the margins whose meaning escapes me now. Much of it seems strange, alien to me, as if someone else wrote it. This unfamiliarity should bother me but it doesn't. I like reading something I've written and not being able to recognize it as my own. That, to me, is writing in its purest form. It's writing that comes directly from the heart without the interruption of the critical mind. It's the flow, the movement, the rhythm, like music. This is what I love, writing in a trance, letting the words come as they will.

What is the story I'm meant to tell? And is there, can there be, more than one? Is this even possible? The answer, without any hesitation, is yes. There is no room for maybe, no room for what if. I need to, have to, write this book, my book. I will not be able to let it go until I do. I have the will; all I need now are the words. I'm searching for an idea, the one that I'll fall so in love with that I'll be afraid to share it for fear it will disappear. I'm turning over stones and sifting through the wreckage, looking for truth. And I know, that somewhere, I'll find it.

Learn more about this author, R.L. Lake.
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