Why I Write

Asking why I write is like asking why I breathe. Because I have to; it’s not voluntary. Tell the ocean to stop making those damn waves; leaves not to bud, bloom and then fall; clouds not to gather and clear. Try telling me not to write.

Sometimes writing feels more like an affliction than a passion or interest. But the why is simple. There are stories in me I must tell.

Some of my stories are light, funny like a fickle breeze on a sultry summer day. Those are fun to share. I picture myself a witty, entertaining fairy-writer, enticing my reader away from doldrums and dullness into a world where escape is as easy as turning a page. Come with me, gentle reader. You will love and praise me for the adventure on which I am taking you. I like praise and love.

A lot of what I write is make-believe. I like playing it safe. Telling the truth is fraught with high voltage wires which once touched can electrify and ignite. Plus writing fiction can be delicious. From acts of betrayal in “real-life,” I can capture villains and victims, placing them as hostages in my fantasies. Go ahead and jilt me, I will murder you with ink. Drop me from your inner sanctum of friends, you may find yourself a fat, pathetic, whining murderer. Fire my child and see how you like being the foil for someone’s cruel indifference. And you can never complain, because, you see, I don’t write about real people. Of course, I don’t.

© 2021 C. Michele Dorsey
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