Friday, 18 July 2014

Rain … 

video
Why do we write … ?

No … Really … 

Why do we write … ?

That’s a good question, isn’t it?

Why … do … we write?

~≈Œ≈~


I have to say, I, personally, don’t know why we write.

Or you, at least.

I suspect that, for many of us, it’s a job.

We use our skill at assembling coherent thought, glued together with punctuation, to say something: something that can earn us money.

Whether that something is a a piece of journalism, a story or script of some form, or an essay.

Or even — heaven help us — a blog post.

For some of us … ?

For some of us, it’s going to be for the sheer hell of the thing.

We like expressing ourselves in words.

Whether we’re after cash, attention, or whatever else: those are excuses to write, excuses to do something we like, and want, to do.

Which could possibly apply to many different forms of art: music, dance, sculpture, painting, whatever.

But those of us who feel a compulsion to write, write because it comes naturally to us.

And suspect we don’t look good in a tutu.

~≈Œ≈~

Ultimately, though … ?

I want to try and say why why I write.

I very much suspect it’s because I’m a hog for the attention.

I’d not mind someone saying ‘Nice piece, Paul.’

Which is your cue to leave me a flattering comment.   (Or a donation, if you’re feeling generous.)

Right now, though … ?

Right now, it isn’t.

Right now, it’s 22:24, British Summer Time.

The sky is that of a July summer.

On the 18th of July, 2014, so you know.

And it’s raining.

It’s beautiful, summer rain, coming down in the kind of thunderstorm you only get in south east England.

With lightning that seems to go from a pale violet, to an electric blue: changing colour with every poetic flash.

Lightning that’s followed by rumbles of thunder that seem to take forever to die, and echo through this part of Brentwood for an age, before they do.

The rain itself … ?

The rain, itself, comes on a breeze.

On a breeze, with the smell of earth and concrete mingled together, that makes my nose, at least, twitch in enjoyment.

That’s why I’m writing, right now.

To tell you it’s raining.

And it’s wonderful.

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