Why do I write.

Oops, no question mark as key doesn't work, sorry.

I write because I want to.

I write because it's an integral part of my being.

I write because I'm good at it (or so I think).

I write because it fits my personality.

I write because it's easy for me.

I write because I have much to say (or so I think).

I write because it's the only thing I know.

But, of course, that's not true.

But I won't enumerate all the other things I can do.

I mean, I'm good at eating, cooking, researching, drawing.

I better stop.

Writing is such joy when you've found your own voice.

And then I found I've got so many voices.

There's alto, tenor, soprano, baritone.

Even as I can't sing.

But I can write.

And it comes easily to me.

I've even written a simple book on writing, God forbid.

But it works, people seem to like it.

Even as my father was right, I may starve.

He says there's no money in writing.

Still, I keep at it.

After all, all people get famous after they pass on.

Maybe I'll get famous.

But the daemon wants to write, so we write.

Otherwise, he'll stop chewing that blade of grass.

And get on my case again.

I may starve, I may disappear into oblivion, but heck, this is my passion.

It's what I'm cut out for.

It's what comes easily to me.

I don't know why, but it just does.

I have been asked to write essays, press releases, collection letters, anything you can think of.

Of course, I'm exaggerating.

But those I've done and more.

It's gone on that you can give me a keyword or one word and I'd be off flying.

Fingers have a mind of their own.

No stuck question mark keys ever stop us.

And if there was no typewriter and keyboard, I still have a pen and paper.

But write I must.

I'm beginning to believe in the power of the pen.

Mighty sword it is!

We've been trained in ninja moves

But writers are like that, forgive us.

Just like any other artist.

We're lost in our own world.

Of our own making.

We live and thrive there.

There is no cure.

It is a delicious madness.

It has a life of its own, surely you know that, if you're like us.

When you're an artist, you just are.

You're wired differently.

We all are, in fact.

A delicious wiring of sorts.

You have your own voice, tone,and approach.

You have your own medium.

And it surely isn't "medium".

You're hot!

That's what passion does to the work you do.

If there's no zing to my zang, I better quit.

But I'm getting hotter by the minute.

So, I continue at my word craft and word play.

I was born for it.

It's the swing I have.

My writing muscles seem to know the movements.

Always so very precise.

Even just in my mind.

After all, most artists are maniacs at perfection.

If it doesn't please us, we start all over again.

We cannot give you lackluster, mediocre stuff.

All or nothing -- that's how we're wired.

And then again, perfection is merely a term.

We simply give you our best.

I always do.

I write as I speak.

Short bursts.

I used to write lengthy paragraphs.

But the older I got, the simpler my thinking.

And then again, they say simplicity is mastery.

I sure hope so.

For all the reams of paper, backs of receipts, any piece of paper lying around.

I've written on all of them.

Ideas don't seem to stop.

It's a compulsion.

And I won't start on all the blogs I've created.

And I'm still creating.

When will I stop.

Never.