Why Do You Come to the Page?
Becca, the Ravenous Reader at Bookstack, is hosting a “Write on Wednesday” virtual writer’s roundtable at her Becca’s Byline site that focuses on writing. We write a post on the week’s topic on our own blogs and link it to Becca’s Byline, so writing stories can be shared.
This week’s topic is “Why Do You Come to the Page?”
I have two reasons. The first is simply that it’s what I do for a living.
In my “real” job, I write. I write press releases, feature articles, I edit-edit-edit (my work and others’). Sometimes those are fun things – particularly when I’m able to create a fun little feature or do an interview.
Mostly, it’s pretty cut and dried. But it’s what I do. (Actually, editing is what I do best! I tend to be a bit verbose!)
And I write as I respond to our viewer questions. Not the same, but it still has to be reasonably well phrased, definitely coherent, always pleasant and as helpful as possible!
The second reason is related more to the writing I do off the clock. I do that because I must. Not that anyone is making me. I just need to say something. Write it down.
As a child I was a pretty good early writer. My stories were imaginative, my vocabulary strong. My mother encouraged this, and despite my sad attempts to be an artist, which was my heart’s desire, I found that writing was always a powerfully strong second.
As I grew up, my artistic talents grew with me. I knew I’d never be a fine artist in the way that so many are, but I would be fine enough for me, and to be able to explore new techniques and even come up with things I wasn’t embarrassed to share! And since I view “art” as more than paint and drawing, my canvas was rather wide!
My writing is art, too. We all know that, as we slog thorough books that are less than stellar and soar through ones that make us laugh, cry, or simply feel.
I used to write a lot as part of the journaling thing. I’d write down (dreadfully, I might add) my feelings about whatever was happening to me. Generally, I’d write more during periods of angst. Long, tortured rambles as I tried to sort myself out! (Pleased to say I lost most of those journals in a basement flood! The ones that were saved are by and large painful reading!)
Now, I do it for fun. I’ll write a little essay that no one but me will ever see. I’ll tell stories about my family history. Now and then, I’ll do a poem, especially those that chart our lives over the course of the year, which I share with Rick on Valentine’s Day.
The Marmelade Gypsy is a combination of journaling for myself and friends and a venue to meet and share things I love with new friends. The thing I am finding is that I enjoy trying to write something for myself once a day, even if it is just a few words of narrative stringing together photos or art.
So, why do I come to the page? It’s what I do, and it’s what I must do.
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