“You asked why I wrote. I said lost things.”
– Dave Smith
I don’t write for sympathy. I don’t write because I revel in the image of an elusive, mysterious woman haunted by loss. I don’t write because I am a victim of social media validation. I don’t write because I need an audience to vindicate or vilify me. I don’t write for fame, or fandom, popularity or infamy. I don’t write for rewards. And I don’t write for you.
I write to be able to sleep at night. I write so I have something to wake up for. I write because it helps me hold on to sanity. I write because it reminds me I am alive and have a life that needs living. I write because it heals the constant wound. I write because for a few precious moments the words let me believe I have a chance to fix what’s broken and try to be happy. I write because if I did not, I could not make even a temporary peace with my fierce, empty and noisy heart. I write for me.
I write not because I can, but because it is the only thing I have that has not left.