I am a writer, and I write. Racehorses run races because they are compelled by forces larger than themselves and writers write because of an inner force too strong to be ignored. I write to fulfil a need that I believe I was born with–a desire to put words into stories and poems, to create situations and re-live experiences in order to share with others. I write for fun and for profit.
When the wellspring within me overflows with ideas, I grab a pen and paper and write the ideas down. I pay attention to detail, to unusual happenings, to unique and common conversations. People are interesting to me. I am one of the many inhabitants of this earth. I write to communicate with others.
Writing is therapeutic but that’s not the reason I write. In fact, I won’t write when I’m extremely sad because I don’t want sadness to show through and discourage others. Optimism is what I want to express through my words.
I write for fun although some of my better poems came from unhappy times in my life. Some of my most frustrating episodes turn into humorous stories or poems. How can sitting at a desk, writing, be fun, asked my super-active youngest son who is a plumber, by trade. A daring child when he was a youngster, his idea of fun was spinning the tires of a four-wheel drive truck deep in mud along the riverbank.
Through writing, my reader and I can go into dangerous areas without leaving our homes. And I have fun.
I write for profit, although writing has not been very lucrative. Still, I attempt to earn money with writing. And I wind up with pocket-money, at least.
To entertain with words is my goal and I feel like an actress on a stage. I want to be good at writing, to be remembered as an author who caused others to read, to laugh, to cry. I want my readers to be encouraged, to believe that life must be lived to its fullest, that precious time must not be squandered.
I like to draw and to paint and would have enjoyed being an artist. I have no time for art because something compels me to write, keeps me at it, and won’t allow me to be disheartened for long.
That “something” drives me, has driven me since I was nine years old. Sometimes, it hides from me temporarily, but it always returns and heads me back toward the green meadows, it takes me over purple mountains, it allows me to watch an eagle glide, and sustains me through all my winters and summers.
A racehorse races because he can.
I’m a writer. I write because I must. I have no choice.
cCopyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols