I sit here now with a peculiarity that alights my motivation. I am uncharacteristically tired for this time of day, and I’d like nothing more than to rest in an armchair and waste the next few hours on some mindless television program. However, I find it almost impossible to fight an urge to write. Perhaps the most wholly remarkable aspect of my atypical affliction is that I really have nothing of note to write about. Staring at my hands as they dance across the keys I am stricken by a vision, as though my fingers were mere cogs in a larger machine, thrust into menial life only to be overshadowed by the larger function of the machine itself. I feel a simmering disappointment in my own disability to discover what may prove to be the function of this particular drivel. Seconds seem like minutes, minutes hours, and hours days as the time ticks on while I sit watching myself type for apparently no reason. It is only after an agonizing hour that I realize I am in fact writing because, I must.
It is only now that I have been stricken by the notion that writers must feel a call to tell stories akin to the proverbial “call of the wild”. Deep within us all there resides a pool of pristine prose that we supply, day in and day out, with observations, fanciful twists of reality, and our own perceptions of how something may occur. Today, I looked deep into the chasm of my chronicles and found it difficult to net a morsel of true sustenance. I looked into the shimmering waters of my wanton narratives and I saw a reflection of myself. One might view this reflection as the unholy demon vilified by the moniker “writer’s block” For a time, I thought to be afflicted so, but I now understand that, for me, it is a call to understand why I write in the first place.
I write because my mother spent the majority of her nights reading my brother and me to sleep when we were children. I write because of Walt Disney’s ability to infuse magic into all aspects of a child’s life. I write because of Michael Crichton and the wonderful worlds that he lay bare on the page. I write because an old woman once convinced me she was a witch. I write because I still attribute noises in the woods to elf’s, fairies, and goblins. I write because Steven Spielberg and George Lucas made films. I write because there is more to life than what we can see or touch. In short, I write because there are times when there is nothing to write about. In those times, it is important to remind ourselves that stories often lie in the most unlikely of places. Whether we write, speak, or film, stories told vividly, and punctuated by love, may be the very reason life is so very wonderful at all. This is why I write.