Writers Cannot Be Niche Imprisoned

Writers write because it is who we are. Because the muse knocks insistently at the door of our inner eye until it opens and a dark flower blooms. Because the words scrabble and scramble to be free, because they itch to escape through our fingertips. Because we are enraged, enervated, radiant, ecstatic, joyful, hateful, anguished. Because we must rhapsodise.

Because we must.

I’d write even if it became illegal to do so, scribbling on stolen paper in a darkened room in an empty house, an escapee from The Ray Bradbury Theatre.

Tell birds not to fly. Tell rain to fall upwards. Tell writers not to write.

Writers write. They write whether they are paid for it, whether they receive acclaim or hatred for it. They write about whatever peculiarity or glittering oddity becomes caught in their mind net. It simply wouldn’t occur to a writer hack off their wings so they might be stuffed into a cage and be fed breadcrumbs, however rich the crumbs.

Bloggers blog. Blogging can be pleasing enough, but compared with writing it is plodding dullness. It’s walking home uphill laden down with bags on a rainy day, contrasted with running downhill in the sunshine with the wind at your back. Blogging is the poor relation of writing.

As those without tastebuds cannot understand the sumptuous satisfaction of delicate flavours, some will never understand that writers write because writers write.

Because we simply have to.