I recently entered a contest for a scholarship to the San Francisco Writer's Conference.  Had to be 250 words, and to answer the question "why I write."

Ultimately, I gave the "Story" quite a bit of character -- and even a little too much "control" over the writer.  However, I think they dig this kind of stuff -- and who knows?  If it wins, I can go this year for free.  :)

It's below.  Enjoy, and don't get weird on me.  It's a style thing.

Why I write...

The Being burns in my gut.  Hammers the inside of my ribcage.
Churns, froths, and bubbles in my soul.

     It is character.  It is circumstance, magic, event, adventure, tragedy.  It is love.  It is war.  It is a kiss, a murder, a birth, a wedding, and a funeral.  It has a name that is ancient and new —kingly and poor simultaneously.  It is here for the time being, and no half-wit mythical muse created it.  No.  It pants its own breath, licks its own lips, and smokes its own acrid cigarettes, thank you very much.
     No one made it.  It has always been here — and if it dies…well, by God, another one will take its place.  For it has a purpose and will see it accomplished.

     It is story.  The living, breathing story.
     It smiles, weeps, gasps, and pounds its fists in a fury at being trapped.  It wants so badly to get out.  Laziness has been called its captor.  Sometimes a sinister phantom named Block.
     But this story knows that its writer is coming, and no cell will hold it any longer.
     Yes. Through the fire of discipline, this raw material is smelted, nurtured, and formed — as layers of dross are scraped diligently through each agonizing draft.

The being burns in my gut.  Hammers the inside of my ribcage.
Churns, froths, and bubbles in my soul.

I must release it.  Give it room to grow, roam, pillage, and bless.

So I do what it wants.  I write.


 
 
I know.  I know.

I made a commitment to write a blog.  I promised to keep it up to date.  I pledged to keep writing, for nothing more than the discipline of getting my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keys.

And I failed.

This post is to admit that, let it be public, and start the creative juices flowing again.  To fan into the flame the spark of "making" something.  And six other cliche metaphors about starting something up again.

While this is a pitiful post, know this:

More is to come.  And no frustration caused by rejection letters from agents will stop me.