We, as artists, are often asked how – how do we sit at a computer, blow off friends and family, to be alone while struggling to write even a single sentence on a blank canvas. And yeah, it is a canvas. We may not paint a picture or compose a symphony, but our art is equally beautiful. Still, it begs the question – not how, but why.

To write is a dedication to accurately discover yourself and the world around you; to write is a promise to deliver a truth to the world that can be held within the deepest annals of the mind, to be grasped at your lowest point. We writers hope that the words etched upon that blank canvas will become a light for those who cannot find one.

To practice solitude, as writers often do, with only yourself as company, you have the ability to protect yourself with a layer of blissful ignorance – ignorance, not unlike a certainty of self, that everyone else but you doubt. It’s a way to assure yourself that you’re who you are, regardless of what others may think or believe.

It’s a selfish thing, to be a writer: when the world is cruel and seeks to suffocate you, a pen and paper can mitigate the affects humanity thrusts upon you. And whether it’s that you have neither the strength nor the courage to change the world or yourself, the sanctity of your mind can never be broken – it’s haven in the purest of forms.

I write for all those things: to feel the worlds in my imagination come alive, to experience the highest of mountains and deepest of seas. I write because I’m selfish and callous. I write so I can one day hope my voice will be heard across the world and that my message will be blazoned across Best Sellers’ lists.

I write because I crave the power, the control. The inexplicable content of knowing that with a few keystrokes or wrist movements, the paths set for anyone upon the paper can be changed and altered. Having that power comforts me as I walk through life, uncertain of the effects others’ choices will have upon me.

I sit at the keyboard, even as the sun sets and the moon lulls into the middle of the sky. I do it because I have no other passion burning as brilliantly as this one. Even just the chance of fueling that passion more brings me the energy to continue typing the narratives that wrought deliverance and decadence to the characters produced from my mind.

I write for the sole reason that I have something to say. And that should be enough.