I write because of an inner compulsion to tell stories. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t particularly enjoy the process of writing. The reward is in the end result; when a story is over, and the characters are alive and no longer annoying my vacant thoughts. Finishing a story is like what I could only imagine a professional boxer feels when winning a big fight with a stunning knockout victory. I stand back and look at the sentences, the phrases, passages, and pages as they whimper in the corner too tired to wrestle with me anymore. The process is exactly that, a big fight. From first thoughts, to ideas, to plots and conception, the first creation in my mind heralds many hours of unsettling work with the hope that the second creation will be as inspired as the first. But the creative process is a reward in itself, and there is no greater joy for a writer than to solve the problems they create.
Writing is like traveling through time, free of any responsibilities, worries, where your own imagination is your guide and your heart your teacher. In this journey there are moments when you are out of control and at the mercy of the process. Where you enter into a battle that lies between the first and second creation; the place where all art lives. This place is neither heaven nor hell, neither good nor evil, it is your own worst nightmare and blissful fantasies all wrapped into one. It’s where heroes meet villains only to discover their own villainous traits, and where love is quashed and then re-born…and then quashed again. It’s where you write sentences that you hope will sing off the page into someone’s heart.
In reality it’s not telling stories at all, it’s showing them. Showing the world, you I have created, a distorted and truthful view of what I see every day, observations that I want others to see; a world of hope, a world of life, a world of heartache or loss and a world of possibilities. For me writing is about trying to show those observations, using words and sentences to draw a reader in, to look over their shoulder and have them look in the direction of where my finger is pointing. Showing them that life is beautiful, no matter the season. That piercing sunshine always comes after the rain, that a still silent breeze always dances in after a harsh wind, and that in every winter there lay an invincible summer.