I attended the monthly Writer’s Gig last night. Rain came pouring. I almost didn’t make it, but as soon as the rain had simmered down I immediately went to the venue (I was previously hanging out with friends in a nearby coffee shop). I thought I was already late.
8 o’clock -ish. There were only a few of us. The crowd, fewer.
[Sidetrack: There’s nothing like listening to classic blues while writing on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.]
My mind ached and I blamed the weather for it. I declined reading during the first set, but after dunking some ice-cold beer into my system my chagrin subsided. Thank you, Red Horse. You’re better than aspirin.
The stage, how much you intimidate me. I’ve had my fair share of public speaking. Still you make me tremble. When will we ever tame each other?
I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking as I read my pieces.
Post-gig: A Small Discourse on Writing
After the gig, we sat outside Wharf Galley to talk about the writing life. Jason presented a simple question: Why Do You Write?. The discussion was informative, especially when the young ones shared their thoughts.
Writing as a form of expression. Writing as a form of meditation. Writing as a way of capturing the moment. Writing as something for everyone. Writing as an anomaly in a pragmatic society. Writing as a necessity.
Actually, I never did share my answer, and I don’t know if I have the right reasons on why I write. Perhaps I could have answered: “I write because I just want to write, because there’s sheer bliss on putting thoughts on paper, on re-assembling ideas, or putting cognitive chaos in order.”
Or maybe I don’t really know anything. I don’t know why I write.
There is only this desire to write. Nothing more, nothing less.