Why do I write?

Or wish I was writing, as the case may be.

In the past it was always because my brain was non stop observing, narrating, creating, imagining.  When I was a kid I was constantly baffling my mum by walking around the yard talking to myself and gesturing wildly. I was telling stories, playing out my role in imagined versions of my life. Aliens landed, international trips were made, big city lives were lived. It never changed when I grew up, just became internal for the sake of, well, not being seen as crazy.

The last few years I have utterly struggled to write, and I think I know why. Being a busy and functioning adult requires more of my brain space than ever before. For a long time I blamed not having enough time, and being unwell. Both of those factors were true problems, but now they are improving and yet my writing hasn’t picked up.

In trying to solve my writers block I have thought more about why I wrote to begin with, and those imaginings as I paced around the back yard were it. I wrote to get the thoughts on paper, in a place they made sense. I need to let my mind wander again, to places that don’t make sense, in ways that waste time. The stories will come if I let go of the grown up thoughts and problems, empty my head, and talk to myself for a while.

Bring on crazy town!

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