Good question. I don’t really have a good answer, just the ‘write’ one. (Sorry, I inherited a propensity for making puns from my dad.) Actually, writing can be a royal pain in the butt. Excruciatingly so sometimes. To be honest with you, I dread the thought of it, until an idea strikes me the way a chair rocking over an outstretched tail enlivens a slumbering cat. It gets me moving, if you will.
But if writing creates such an emotional upheaval, why do it? Are you just a glutton for punishment? Are you just stupid? I refuse to answer that–and don’t you answer it. Well, why not just curl your tail between your legs–away from the blasted rocker? Another good question. I guess the answer to that is, I can’t. You must really love to write then.
I love to create. If I could paint, I suppose I would paint. If I could make music, surely I would do that. Either of those would be wonderful vehicles for creating, if only I could ride them. I know what many of you are thinking right about now. Gary, you can’t pedal the writing tricycle without a wobble either. Well, that said, we do the best we can with the tools available to us, don’t we? I create the only way I know how. In my mind, I am a painter of canvas. I am a composer of music. Only I use words rather than paintbrushes or piano keys. Words are my notes. Paragraphs are my backdrop, my rhythm; and chapters, my melody. The story is my song and I sing it as best I can. So, yes, I guess I do love to write fiction. Because that is how I create. I find my rhythm, work toward a crescendo, and then let the music play itself to a conclusion.
I hope you listen to my music. I hope you envision the image on my canvas. Creating–it’s what I am compelled to do. My painting. My song. So let the music play.