Write or Wrong
Don’t ask me where it comes from or why I do it — because I don’t know either.
I write what I know. What I’ve been through, seen, and learned. I write about what shaped me, as well as what damn near broke me on more occasions than I care to count. But I also write about how I managed to put myself together, more than once. No matter what.
I write about who I thought I was, who I used to be, and who I am now.
I touch on what I wish every other writer wrote about — what they really think and how they really feel, regardless of who feels what about it, as well as who does or doesn’t read it.
I read my own writing, regularly. I’m my biggest but least favorite reader and fan.
I don’t even like writing, I hit it daily and it still loves me. I’m never going to let it leave. I’ll leave it with no other option but to stay. Besides, where would it even go? I don’t want to write, I have to. It’s not an option, it’s a requirement — for both mind and spirit. Mine and yours. His and hers.
It’s not something I do, it’s who and what I am and forever will be — irregardless. You can tell I’m a writer because I use audacious and ridiculous words like regardless.
Pen, pencil, crayon, marker, keyboards, gadget, or my own blood — or anyone’s who’s ignorant and uneducated enough to get in the way. I’ll write, even if I go about it wrong.
As a kid, I wrote during class because I don’t consider it work. It’s child’s play. Something I do for both my amusement and likely that of someone you love who you hope loves you. We have our doubts though, don’t we?
Well, I don’t. At least not when it comes to this here one thing. She loves me.
I write to try and make sense of it all, not for dollars I’m going to do nothing meaningful with. I write to reminisce and reflect. On my own strengths, our collective weaknesses, and my own regret. Yesterday’s, today's, and tomorrow's.
I don’t come up with what I write, it comes right up to me and begs for help. I often turn it down, just to keep it humble. To not let it get ahead or full of itself. It makes it’s way right toward me and obsessively ensures I got it all down, each and every overly creative yet neurotic word, sentence, and paragraph. I almost always do but rarely fess up to it — for the sake of its own livelihood — and selfishly, for my own survival.
All I know how to do right is write. If that’s wrong, I’ll see you in court.
