A question came through my twitter feed a few days ago. It went like this; "would you keep writing if you knew no one on earth would ever read what you've written?"
I thought about it for a minute. Then I answered. Yes.
Yes, I would still write.
I hang around the internet with beautiful writing people. Their words inspire me. I'm the unpublished hanger on. I know if can ever connect the vignettes, character studies, and poems, I may have a story.
And I do so want to write a complete and sensible tale. But if I never get it done, it'll be because something grabbed my attention and said "write me."
Because I am a writer. Undisciplined for sure. Scatterbrained at least. But a writer. A weaver of words. With tales to tell and myths to mold.
When I walk outside and see the leaves turning, fleeing from their branches, words are unleashed in my head. Scattered nouns and adjectives trying valiantly to create a sentence.
When things happen around me, my mind runs off in tangents. Visions of "what ifs" start scrolling behinds my eyes.
My characters are my friends, I see them. I hear them. I smell their surroundings and feel their emotions.
They give me their stories in fits and starts. Then wander off to have another adventure. Which I'm sure they'll relate as soon as they return.
And when they do, I will write it. Whether or not anyone reads it.