7:15. I write because it’s early in the morning and the amount of energy required to make actual conversation with actual people is less appealing than the thought of just spilling my thoughts onto a blank page. I write because blank pages need to be filled. I write because I want to mould something out of nothing. Sometimes I write just for the novelty of it. Sometimes I write because I have to.
I write because the world is too big, there are too many people and too many stories and I feel like my voice is drowning in a of a crowd of 7 billion people and I, selfishly, want my voice to be heard. The more I write the more plausible it seems, the possibility of me being someone important.
I also write because the world is too small, really. Not the physical world, measured by the size of the earth and the world population that keeps on multiplying by the second– no, I mean the type of world that we’re not a part of but we wish we were. The fictional world. I write because there needs to be more of that. I write because I read stories and think, “What happens next?” Or I look at characters and I ask myself, “What would happen if–” and then I make it happen. I write to make things happen. In a world full of limits, the feeling of creating one without any is the most gratifying feeling in the world. I write because I am free.
7:30. I am now sitting in an auditorium in school about to pick up an award. The speaker at the podium tells everyone to be quiet. I look into my phone and keep writing because I can.