Why do I write? Well…

Posted in response to the Writing 101 1st day prompt of ‘Why do I write’:

… there is no one reason why I write.  In fact, I really don’t think about the ‘reason’, I just do it.  But now I’m being forced into examining my motives they are clearly quite complex.

For a start, I do like the feel of scrawling pencil on paper, as well as my thoughts tumbling out and becoming formed through my fingers via a keyboard. Also, I like to play with words, constructing sentences and then improving, changing, and finding new ways of expressing them. I spend hours consulting dictionary and thesaurus until I’m satisfied that my words are as fluid and beautiful as I can make them (of course, they are still never quite good enough though!).

I can be the ‘real’ me…. or someone else, depending on my mood.  It certainly gives me the opportunity to express my dark side (in fact, when I took a creative writing course my tutor mentioned that the darkness suited me!) I can write characters that I’d like to know, or individuals who are clearly bonkers.  I can exorcise nightmares by turning them into stories, or write poems based on pretty dreams. Occasionally, I write things based on episodes in my life and never tell anyone that there is truth in there. Or I can vent, and moan, or share silliness, or adventures.  I can gossip or advise, be sensitive or crass. The world, as they say, is my lobster (yep, I know it’s oyster, but I changed it… yeah, I can do that too!)

I guess I benefit in many ways.  Writing is a creative outlet that I can immerse myself in, abandoning all other thoughts and worries. In that sense it ticks the ‘mindfulness’ box that we hear so much about these days, and in its way it is meditative and calming.

My question then, is not why I write, but why wouldn’t I?

Writing 201 Poetry – Day 7

Today’s challenge is to write a piece of ‘prose poetry’ using assonance, with the theme of ‘fingers’.

Phew, got something of my chest here….!!


The Uninvited

You entered with your sticky fingers, inviting yourself to view my life.  You saw me through your strangers eyes.  My family, my face watching from the frames, while you walked past touching, taunting, terrorising. Past the sofa where on winter nights we huddle and cuddle while watching crime dramas on TV where the likes of you are shot and killed by dedicated and determined men. Up the stairs past graduation photos, you begin to know us, know our story, who we are, our minor glories. Rummaging, rampaging, through private rooms where love thrives. Tossing children’s toys aside in ways which children never ought. You pick, you choose, you take. You take my memories, you take my keepsakes, you take my security.  You callous individual with your sticky fingers, did you think I would forgive?