So why do we do it.

Why do we write? What an interesting question to pose. I am not bold enough to create an essay that will explore the topic of why all the authors of the world do what they do. But I will take a stab at trying to explain why I do.

I write because the worlds that I have created on paper are a part of me. They are true realities that run as a parallel existence to this world you and I live in. This statement may sound as if I have a multiple personality disorder or delusions of grandeur, but I assure you that I do not; I don’t either.

To better explain what I am talking about, it would be more fitting to describe what a writer feels when he or she is not writing. Anxious, unsettled, impatient, are some descriptive words that come to mind. I am currently involved in the consuming process of marketing my first release title Byron Carmichael; the first of a mystery series. I completed the novel well over a year ago, and the world of Byron Carmichael is always alive and with me; always calling me to come back.

That world is similar to ours. There are old broken villages and new sprawling suburbs. The winds and seasons continue to gust and change. The world persists, but the people are waiting.

Old men rock on their porches while their wives crochet. The children sit restless, gazing into space with their heads propped up on their fists. The vehicles are tuned and repaired, their tanks full of fuel. The paper press awaits the next breaking news broadcast and reporters stand by.

My three characters, my children, Byron, Nick, and Gracie, are checking their email, their voice messages, desperately waiting for the call to get back to work. Their lives are frozen. They are in a dreadful state, awaiting the outcome of their teenage lives; will they make the grade, will they find their match, will they defeat their rivals.

Yet, I keep them waiting. I hear their calls. I constantly see glimpses of their future, and I long to come back to them, to watch them, to direct them, answer their questions, spend time with them, and give them life. But I still wait, anxious, unsettled, and impatient. While the evils plot and the dangers linger in the world of Byron Carmichael, I still wait. I instead answer the question, ‘why do we write.’ And I do too…