I often wonder what life would like without the stories we tell. How I might’ve lived without that unbearable itch inside me. The type of pain that eats away at me the moment I spend too much time away from the page.

Would I be happier? More at peace?

Would I miss the chaos? The spontaneous ideas that come to me without question for time or reason?

I don’t think we choose to be writers, I think the writing life chooses us. And we either push it aside, numb ourselves to its call. Or we succumb to it, like a terrible addiction, never able to fulfill the promise of just ‘one last time’. 

In fact, that is the blessing and the curse of being a writer. The act of writing is both an action that fulfills and yet can just as easily destroy us as any other particular passion.

So choose your poison wisely.

But if you do, you may find reward in all the pain and torment. People question why put yourself through such misery? Why spend hours drafting something that might remain unseen? Why live in your head when there’s a world outside filled with people and things to do?

Because I remember the nights I needed to escape from the world for just an hour. And all it took was novel filled with characters, a world that would never exist, to whisk me away on a journey that gave me hope, anchored me with ambitions, and taught me how to dream.

Stories teach us in ways practical studies cannot. Touch our heart in ways basic entertainment fails too. Hard to describe, I know. I may never find the right words to express it.

But what I can say, is that I want to read my own books one day and find comfort in them, and hope that somebody else can find comfort in them too.

That the characters in my head may have a voice, that my inner child gets to express all what it never got too. Writing stories is just another medium to share our thoughts and experiences, a method of leaving our legacy, a way to forge through our emotions, a piece to represent us long after we’re gone.

Whether for our next of kin, to the world, or just to the infinite cosmos.

I hope you choose to listen to the writer inside you. Or to whatever passion stirs in your heart. Yes, be realistic, yes, try to have a plan. Know that things take time, and hardship is part of the adventure.

But revel in being an optimist, of being called crazy and wild for believing. Trust your gut, have your own back, and know that it’s only impossible if you believe it to be so.

With that in mind… I’ve spent the last ten minutes searching for a meaningful or fulfilling way to conclude this first blog post. 

But starting will always be the scariest part.

So let us just begin.