Some questions for you ...

Firstly, a disclaimer. I wrote this post for a blog competition, but it wasn't chosen, so I am using it here. No point letting it go to waste, and I am quite interested in what you all have to say about the ramblings.

The Russian Dolls poem is still coming. It's been a tough week, as you can imagine, but I've been working through a fair bit of stuff, so it's been good in that respect.

Here is the 'actual' post.

Why do you write? I mean really. Is it just to become famous, to purge your soul, or is it for yourself? The answer so many people give is that writing is for their benefit only. However, they are secretly hoping that fame and fortune will come, that someone will realise who it is writing away in that little room down the back of the house, extend out a hand and an invitation to the top of the pile.

Why don't you get published? Excuses, excuses, excuses, excuses. A myriad really. I can't find an agent, I'm too tired, I've probably written a load of rubbish anyway. They're not excuses. They are a set of golden mantras to live by, and live by them is what so many do. There are hundreds of unknown writers, of which I am one. What can I do to make myself stand out from the crowd? How can I write 'the one'?

Uuh. Too hard. Too scary; and so the mantra starts up again, filling the void that should be recognition.

The hardest question of all ... What right do you have to keep it to yourself? A new train of thought, a new direction to take. What right indeed?!?!?!?! It's my writing and I'll hide it if I want to.

Why do you write? Let's get serious now. To answer that question truthfully, without rhetoric or fabrication, you really need to answer the question - why is it that you read?

I read to experience life. I get a tickle of delight when I come across a wonderfully profound way of expressing an emotion or image. I read to expand who I am; to be challenged with new thoughts and ways of living. I read to delve into the psyche of another human; to break through the cryptic messages that are contained within the string of words placed delicately across each page. I read to see the world in a different way; to take a step back and reflect on what has been said by another, and marvel in how effectively things have been given a life of their own. I read to find out who I am, to push myself into being Gandhi's 'change in the world that I would like to see'.

What sort of world would we live in without Dickens, Bronte, Shakespeare, Rowling? What sort of person would you have been without the printed word? That is why it is selfish to write and to keep it hidden away.

This is why I write, because something I say might just make a difference to someone's life.

After all, isn't that what we are here for?