I write to clear my mind of all the clutter that accumulates from observing the work around me.
I write because I feel I have something to say.
I write because I have to.
I write because I feel guilty when I do not.
I write because I understand that neither fame nor fortune will come my way if I do not write.
This stimuli has begun to digest. The clutter is beginning to disappear into loosely sorted boxes. Looking at the growing stack I begin to see that if my original statement was correct then most of these boxes would be accompanied by some kind of story.
Instead, they wait forlornly as I move to another place, one that has been dedicated to a single line of thought: two, maybe three novels that create a unified whole. One novel stands halfway through its second draft as the rest await their turn. It could be only one book, but only those who make it to the big times are allowed that many words all at once.
Still, the clutter comes, bad books, boring movies, disturbing plots and ideas. I need to do something with them. I think, I plot, I digest. Then, at the end of the day, I recognize that I am ripping apart someone else’s dream. It comes back to me that I have the ability to create my own, so I write.
Then there are the GOOD stories. The ones that inspire you and give you a benchmark to aim for. Never under estimate their value when you find them.