There’s some things I wanted to say about writing, and how I write, and why I write.
Why I write.
I don’t know why I do; I don’t know what else I’d do if I didn’t write or think about writing or talk to writers or read about writing – or even read books and think about writing them, and what I would have done (or wouldn’t have done). I write because it’s who I am. What or who else would I be if I didn’t? Yes, I get distracted. Everyone does. Real life gets in the way. Things overwhelm other things. It happens. But even at the furthest away I’ve ever been from a bit of paper and a pen (or my typewriter or word processor), there’s always writing inside my head.
How do I write?
I write. Flippant, isn’t it. Facetious, even. I just write and keep writing and write more and go back and write over what I wrote and go on and write more. Like a child locked in a room with blank walls and a big fat crayon. Writing writing always writing. I could give all the tips in the world, and even though I did study writing, I still maintain that it’s not really something that can be formally learned. You learn writing by writing, not to listening to people talk about writing, or writing yourself. The how and whys are bound up here together, you see. I write because I have to, and any way that I can, for as long as I can, always. That’s it, really.