I don’t write because I love language.
I see others that do, those that turn phrases with practiced grace and sculpt sentences that make your heart race or your brain seize up. Nothing short of remarkable, what they do, but it isn’t what I do.
I also don’t write because I consider myself a storyteller, nor because I feel I have a story to tell.
Others tell me that they do feel this way. Often, they are thus far incapable of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys) to produce the story they have bottled up inside, but they know it’s there. When they find the time, they say, they’ll release it.
I enjoy my stories but I don’t feel the same passion that these others seem to.
For me, writing is a dive into the creative process. It is a skill to be honed. Every literate person can write, but I strive to write well. This means more than just crafting effective sentences or telling a story. It’s about the whole of it. The imagining of a world, the development of a plot and its characters, the method of writing, the process, and the final product.
It is the struggle that I crave and enjoy. It is a battle that I will always fight, because there is no victory. There is really only failure, which comes when you surrender. Hang up the hat.
But as long as you do keep fighting, there is always a fight. You get better at it. You learn from your mistakes and your successes. You develop a style. But you’re never complete. You’re never finished. And that’s great, because I would never want to be.